


everyone's at it

by scepticallyopenminded



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amorality, Banshee Lydia, Consensual Blood Drinking, Hale Pack are Vampires, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kitsune Kira, M/M, Magic, Magic Stiles Stilinski, McCall Pack are Hunters, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Graphic Violence, Self-Hatred, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Werecoyote Malia, Werewolf Jackson, Werewolf Scott, not graphic though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-04-08 22:18:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4322871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scepticallyopenminded/pseuds/scepticallyopenminded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale, owner of the club, and a very powerful vampire. </p><p>He’d come into town a few months ago, made a big fuss because he was new and attractive and immediately bought up the abandoned club on the west side of town, and in a town as small as Beacon Hills gossip travelled fast. Of course, as they do with all new people, the pack had researched him up, tailed him, figured him out until it was ascertained that he and his crew were vampires, which – </p><p>This is the pack’s home, where they come home to when they aren’t hunting, so having other supernatural creatures settle down is fucking annoying, but more than that, scary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. there's weakness in me

**Author's Note:**

> work title from "Everyone's At It" by Lily Allen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "Sleep Paralysis" by Gabriel Bruce

“You ready?” Scott asks, stopping the car. They’re both looking at the club, the twilit sky and surrounding trees an odd background for the brick building, lit stereotypically by a couple of flashing neon signs. It’s a spectacle, one of only a small few real clubs in the Beacon Hills area, and the only one not in the city – it’s near the Preserve, off road a bit, but a big night spot for the locals and some of the smaller surrounding towns.

Stiles snorts.

“I’m always fucking ready for a fight,” he says in response, which makes Scott laugh a bit, humourlessly.

“Let’s go, then.”

The club is just as stereotypical inside, a mass of dancing bodies on the floor, the bar full of people mingling, sparse tables holding a few groups here and there. Stiles scans the place quickly, spots their mark within a minute, sitting (so stereotypically) in a corner booth with a couple of others, his cronies no doubt. He nudges Scott a bit, flicks his eyes to the booth.

“Beer?” Scott asks after glancing their way, and Stiles nods with a tight smile, touching Scott’s elbow lightly before he goes off to the bar, Stiles to a table close to their mark’s.

_Derek Hale_ , owner of the club, and a _very_ powerful vampire.

He’d come into town a few months ago, made a big fuss because he was _new_ and _attractive_ and immediately bought up the abandoned club on the west side of town, and in a town as small as Beacon Hills gossip travelled fast. Of course, as they do with all new people, the pack had researched him up, tailed him, figured him out until it was ascertained that he and his crew were _vampires_ , which –

This is the _pack’s_ home, where they come home to when they aren’t hunting, so having other supernatural creatures settle down is fucking annoying, but more than that, scary.

All in all, they haven’t really done anything, just kept an eye on Derek until they’d noticed a pattern of dead bodies cropping up, about once every two weeks, drained of their blood. The cops have only caught a couple of them, haven’t thought too much (the murder rate was abnormally high, an influx of supernatural creatures _drawn_ to the area, unexplainable shit happened all the time – Stiles is mostly apathetic, by this time, nine years after Scott got bit by a passing alpha werewolf that spiralled into all the shit they do now, is only affected still at all because his dad is still working there, knows about all the shit they deal with and the entire world and has aged a hundred years in the last nine, is sick because people are slowly losing faith in the police department). The pack though, they know every body, know who’s doing it, too. It’s taken some planning, but now – now they strike, because they don’t stand for this shit. Maybe it’s the influence of having a hunter on the team from the very beginning, but they did not allow innocent lives to be taken, especially on _their_ turf, not matter how discreetly it’s done, no matter how insignificant the lives taken are (if nothing else, Derek’s careful – only taking those victims that wouldn’t really be missed, those without families, those without secure jobs).

“Here,” Scott grunts, setting down a bottle in front of Stiles, startling him a bit from where’d he’d been subtly watching Derek. He accepts with a nod, taking a sip as Scott slides into the seat across from him.

“What do we do?” Scott asks, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the group.

“Wait,” Stiles replies, biting at his lip, “Dance?”

Scott snorts again, looks to the dance floor.

“Lydia’d be on your ass if she heard you.”

Stiles twitches his mouth into half a smile.

“Gotta blend somehow,” is what he says, and Scott gives him a long look, eyes tracing the right side of Stiles’ face and neck, shaking his head a bit.

“Think the scars’d give you away if the hardened demeanour didn’t.”

Stiles brings his hand up to rest on his face, sending Scott a small glare.

“You’d have ‘em too if you didn’t have supernatural healing ability.”

Scott snorts again, brings his bottle to his lips as he nods in agreement.

Stiles is at the bar ordering another beer for Scott (his only half drank – he’s not stupid enough to get even slightly tipsy on a job, but with his extremely fast metabolism Scott had finished his, nodding to the bar for Stiles to grab another, get another quick survey on the room) when he feels a presence beside him. He glances up to find Derek, leaning against the bar with a smirk on his face.

“You’re new,” is what he says, not what Stiles was expecting but something he can work with.

“Heard good things,” he replies, nodding to the bartender as she hands him the drink. She’s watching them with a smirk/smile of her own, eyes flashing an icy white-blue for half a second, enough for him to recognize. He looks away from her to Derek, picking up the beer.

 “Living up to expectations?” Derek asks, eyes flicking down and up Stiles’ body. Stiles lets his own eyes wander across Derek’s chest for a moment before looking back into his eyes.

“A few,” he answers with a lick to his lips, because he can play this game too, “Few things I would suggest to the owner, I think.”

Derek’s eyes show his amusement, and after a short second he nods his head to the back of the club.

“Could tell him right now, I suppose.”

Stiles glances at the table where Scott’s still sitting. He’s watching them, until he sees Stiles look, averting his eyes to survey the dance floor. Derek looks over too, smirk more pronounced as he looks back to Stiles.

“Unless he’s your boyfriend, of course,” he says, then gives an exaggerated sniff, “But I don’t smell enough ‘wolf on you for that to be the case.”

Stiles’ expression falls at that, but Derek only raises an eyebrow, nodding toward the back of the club again.

“Come with me and we can talk.”

The bartender is still watching them, her own expression matching Stiles’ one of slight surprise, and her eyes flash again as Stiles looks at her.

“Fine,” he tells Derek, setting the beer down, letting his hand drop to his thigh, tapping at the spelled tattoo that lie there, the one that all the pack had, an easy voiceless way of communication. He can feel Scott’s eyes on him again as he starts to follow Derek, feels the pressure of the quick succession of taps that are returned, tapping once more to let Scott, let the pack, know that he’s okay.

“Sit,” Derek nods toward the couch when they reach his office, leaning against the desk. Stiles does as he says, sitting carefully on the couch, eyes trained on Derek.

“I’m honestly surprised you thought you could sneak on me, especially considering it’s been months since we came to town,” the vampire starts after a moment of them watching each other, grin coming back to his face, “As if I’m stupid enough to come to someplace as supernaturally active as Beacon Hills without doing my own research. As if you and your rag-tag pack of makeshift hunters haven’t gained quite the reputation with our community. As if I didn’t know this was your home before I even thought about moving out here.”

Stiles can feel his heart beating rapidly against his ribcage, can tell that Derek knows too, from the huff of amusement as Derek’s eyes flicker down to this chest.

“Honestly, I’m more disappointed you didn’t simply attempt to kill my brood and I outright. I would’ve thought you were more skilled hunters than that from the reputation you’ve built.”

“You’re too strong,” Stiles spits out, fury mixing with the fear Derek is striking in him (he’s not actively afraid of much these days – again, more apathetic – but there’s something about Derek, the absolute strength he exudes, the obvious hundreds of years he’s been alive, gathering power, that gives him some amount of fear), “We’re a young pack. Been too near to losing our lives too many times to run into things without planning before.”

“Hmmm,” Derek hums, pushing himself off the desk to walk towards Stiles, “I’ve thought lots about what to do with you all. Thought about simply killing you when you and that ‘wolf arrived this evening, but then,” he stops just in front of Stiles, leans over until their heads are at the same height, noses barely an inch from touching, hand coming up to trace lightly along the scars on his face. Stiles leans away at the touch, but it only makes Derek’s sneer wider.

“Then you happened.”

“ _I_ happened,” Stiles repeats harshly, and Derek huffs in laughter again.

“You did,” he whispered, leaning further over to sniff at Stiles’ neck, “You smell incredibly enticing.” He presses his lips briefly to Stiles’ jugular. Stiles’ shivers, his hand twitching before he clenches into a fist, very slowly moving his hand around his waist.

“There is nothing I want more than to _drink_ you,” Derek tells him, voice a little heavy, and Stiles goes for it, reaching quickly around his body towards the small spike tucked into his belt at his back, only – in less than an instant both of his hands are restrained above his head, Derek’s eyes glowing that white-blue colour, snarl on his face, fangs descended.

“Don’t even _think_ about it,” he growls, holding both of Stiles’ wrists with one hand as the other reaches around, pulling the spike out and throwing it to the other end of the couch. He also takes the two knives Stiles has hidden under his pant leg, the gun in the inner pocket of his coat, tosses them all out of Stiles’ reach.

“You honestly thought you could take me on your own?” Derek sneers, head cocking to the side, words a bit slurred around the fangs that are still visible, “I thought you were supposed to be the smartest one of your little pack.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles mutters at him, and Derek smirks in response.

“I would be nicer if I were you,” he says, leaning down again, “I could just drain you right here, right now.”

Stiles feels Derek’s fangs touch his neck lightly, the vampire whispering, “This might hurt a bit at first,” before all Stiles can feel is a sharp pain, followed at first by a stinging, sucking sensation, and then it’s nothing but pure _ecstasy_ , arching his neck toward the sensation.

He barely realizes what Derek’s doing before he blacks out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me at [asocialfoxpaw](http://asocialfoxpaw.tumblr.com)
> 
> For reference: 
> 
> Stiles is a spark, magical being. I love magic Stiles I swear to god I rarely write a fic where he's not magic. It's my jam. More about sparks in the fic.
> 
> Derek, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd are all vampires, part of a brood. Derek is the original of the brood, sort of like the alpha. He's older, more powerful, turned the other three, and is in charge. Erica and Boyd are in a relationship.
> 
> Scott and Jackson are werewolves, Scott is a true alpha. Will explore their origin story within the fic. Malia is a werecoyote. Her origin story is pretty much the same as canon, will not be explored as in depth. Lydia is a banshee, Kira is a kitsune. Allison comes from a hunter family. 
> 
> The entire McCall pack are hunters, also explained within fic. Scott and Allison are together. Malia and Kira are together. Lydia and Jackson are on-again-off-again. 
> 
> Please throw comments my way! Constructive criticism is always welcome.


	2. live my life in self-defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having a brood of vampires, especially one as strong as Derek, would give them a huge upper hand, at least at home, and the brood would not doubt be willing to watch over the territory while they were away, something they desperately needed.
> 
> “I get to feed from Stiles at least twice a month.”
> 
> “You want him as your familiar,” Erica says with some amount of disbelief at the same moment that Malia and Jackson growl again, Allison letting out an obvious noise of disgust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **edit: 5.27.17**
> 
>  
> 
> this is not a new work!
> 
> I'm moving the parts from my series "everyone's at it" into a chaptered fic because it makes more sense as a chaptered fic than as a series. also, I'm updating it probably later today again yay! 
> 
> so there's a chance you've already read this. also, the original fic will stay up for a short while before I delete it. 
> 
> thanks!
> 
> chapter title from "Diane Young" by Vampire Weekend

“I fucking hate my job,” is the first thing Stiles growls upon waking up. The thing is, he doesn’t have a headache, which he usually does when he wakes up after a fight with a bad guy, only the slightest of thrumming pain in his neck and –

And his hand flies up to touch his neck as his eyes shoot open, only to hear a chuckling above him – above him, where he quickly discerns Derek’s face is, because, he’s noticing as he touches his neck, where he _knows_ Derek put his fucking _fangs_ into him, _his head is laying in Derek’s lap_.

“What the fuck,” he asks as he sits up. There’s the usual slight rush of dizziness that accompanies sitting up quickly, but then there’s _more_ , and – and he almost falls over, except Derek catches him quickly, cocking his head with that same smirk he’s had all night.

“I’ve taken a pint of your blood, I wouldn’t try any heavy physical activity or moving too quickly at least until you’ve gotten some food and fluids into your body.”

Stiles just looks at him as he slumps back into the couch, Derek removing his hands after a moment.

“You didn’t change me, did you?”

Derek’s smirk gets a bit wider at that, but he shakes his head after a moment longer of simply staring at Stiles.

“We have a set of rules. Don’t change anyone without their consent.”

“But you’ll drink their blood without their consent,” he points out, because he most decidedly did _not_ say Derek could take his blood. Derek snorts.

“Vampires have some needs, and unfortunately there aren’t many that would be willing to give up their blood even if it was safe to allow them to know that we _exist_.” He cocks his head further to the side, smirk sliding more into a curious smile. “Think of it as an _experience_.”

Stiles is silent for another moment, thinking about tapping at the tattoo before Derek can actually kill him, except – it doesn’t make a lot of sense to him, how Derek didn’t simply drain him of his blood like he had with all his other victims. Sure, he’d have a pack after him and his brood then, but Stiles has _no_ doubts in his mind that a vamp like Derek, especially _prepared_ for a fight, could easily take out their rag-tag pack of three weres, a banshee, a kitsune, and a trained hunter, all of whom had only been _aware_ of themselves for ten or so years, not to mention _trained_ only for the past five or so. They were good, but Derek and his brood (which Stiles didn’t even _know_ how many were in it) were no doubt better.

“You didn’t drain me,” he says carefully. His weapons have been moved from the couch, hidden somewhere, he’s guessing, but he still has his tattoo, a quick succession of taps to his thigh, to call the entire pack to him in an instant, so he’s not too worried.

“Drain you?” Derek asks, seeming genuinely surprised for a moment before some form of clarity falls over his face, “Oh. You mean the dead bodies, I’m guessing.”

Stiles has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, because honestly, he’s sick of bad guys who can’t tell left from right.

“Yes, I’m talking about the dead, _drained of their blood_ bodies that have been cropping up since you moved in.”

Derek smirks again, and it’s becoming an expression that Stiles is rapidly growing bored and annoyed of.

“You honestly think me and my brood are doing that? Like we’d still be around if we were stupid enough to drain people everywhere they we go?”

Stiles stops for a moment, hand still resting on his thigh by the tattoo.

“It’s not you?”

He can’t help the surprise in his voice, because that makes no sense at all, unless – unless another vamp snuck its way onto their land, which doesn’t make sense either because _Derek_ would’ve  taken it out before they even had a chance. Vampires are well known to be even more territorial than weres and hunters.

“It’s not even a vampire,” Derek replies, eyebrows raised in a fashion that Stiles can tell clearly insinuates that he thinks that Stiles is an idiot.

“There have been puncture marks in all the victims. In places vampires are _known_ to go for, and the blood has been drained of them all.”

“Hunters as good as you and your pack have to know that vampires aren’t the only ones who drain blood.”

Stiles stops, because that’s _true_ , of course it’s true, it just never made sense in the context they were looking at this, because Derek and his brood moved in just weeks before the first victim. Everything had lined up perfectly, except _maybe not_.

“You know what it is, though.”

Derek huffs, nods.

“You might want to call the rest of your pack for this, though,” he nods toward Stiles’ thigh, where his hand is resting right next to the tattoo, and wait. How does he know _that_.

“You can’t read minds, can you?” Stiles asks as he moves his hand over to begin the sequence.

Derek snorts again.

“Just observant.”

Stiles calls the rest of the pack.

***

“So,” Lydia is the first to speak. There’s his pack, lining one side of the rather small office; Lydia, Scott, Jackson, Malia, Kira, Allison and Stiles. On the other is Derek, with his brood, introduced as Erica, Boyd and Isaac. Everyone’s fixing each other with death glares, with the exception of Derek and Stiles. Derek’s still got his (now trademark, in Stiles’ book) smirk on his face, and Stiles is just carefully looking between the two groups, hoping to god someone doesn’t make a move because he’s not so sure that there’s actually anything wrong with the vamps (except, of course, drinking blood without consent, but Stiles can at least kind of understand the reasoning behind that, even if he hates that Derek did it to _him_ ).

“So,” Derek says in return, eyebrow cocked.

“It’s not them,” Stiles decides to say then, carefully watching his pack.

“Like hell it’s not,” Allison starts, “We researched the hell out of this, there’s no way – ”

“What’s not us?” one of Derek’s brood speaks – Isaac, Stiles thinks – interrupting Allison, which she sends a death glare at him for.

“The bodies,” Derek supplies, sparing a half-second glance for his consanguine.

“Of course it’s not us,” the lone female of the group, who’d been tending the bar last Stiles knew, speaks up, sounding affronted at the very idea, “First rule of vampirism: don’t drain your supplier.”

“Lots of vamps do it though,” Scott points out, and Stiles sighs.

“I can vouch. He didn’t do it to me, at least.”

There’s a moment of silence as everyone absorbs the information, than gasps and cries of outrage from the pack.

“He _fed_ from you?” Malia nearly screams, lunging toward Derek. Scott catches her and pulls her back with help from Lydia, both of them obviously smart enough to know that at the very least they don’t want to start an all out war here, now. Derek, to his credit, doesn’t so much as flinch. Malia’s face stays in a snarl even as she’s ushered back behind the front line of Scott and Lydia and Stiles, and for that matter Jackson’s and Kira’s faces are much the same.

“That’s not the point,” Derek says, his face full of amusement, almost mocking, “The point is we aren’t the ones draining the humans. And I’m fairly sure we can unite behind the common goal of stopping whoever _is_ , because it draws unwanted attention from other hunters and supernaturals, which is something I doubt any of us want.”

“You know what it is, then,” Lydia observes, and Derek nods to her, face softening the slightest into a real smile as he looks to her.

“Obviously the most intelligent one of this pack,” he replies, flicking a glance over to Stiles, “And yes. It’s a lamia.”

There’s another moment of silence before Jackson speaks up.

“A what?”

“They’re an odd mix, something akin to a succubus and a vampire crossover. They generally only attack young males, though,” Stiles tells him, keeping his eyes trained on Derek.

“Very heteronormative of you,” Derek quips with a smirk directed at Stiles.

“Ha,” he says in return, biting at his lip in thought, “It’s a lamia, then.”

“We don’t know how to kill a lamia,” Lydia brings up, looking to Stiles, who nods, glancing her way before he flicks his eyes back to Derek.

“Do you?”

“Five hundred and twelve years a vampire and you don’t think I’ve figured out how to kill every supernatural being out there?” he asks in response, both eyebrows raised, and Stiles doesn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes this time.

“Are you going to _tell_ us, or just mock us with you all knowing-ness?”

Erica laughs at that, letting one shoulder fall in a shrug when Derek sends her a small glare.

“Silver knife to the heart, through either the front or the back. It’ll be enough to stun her for a few minutes, so you have to immediately after sprinkle the body with a rosemary and salt mix, and set her on fire.”

Everyone’s silent for a moment before Stiles speaks up.

“Let’s go, then.”

“We’ll help you track her,” Derek says before anyone can so much as move, “As soon as the club closes in an hour. We’ll help you track her, and we’ll also help with any other supernatural creatures or hunters that come on this territory, under one condition.”

“We don’t bargain,” Scott tells him quickly, “You don’t help us, or you hurt even one person, we’ll take you out, too.”

Derek outright laughs at that.

“He’s too strong for us,” Allison says, sounding as downtrodden about it as Stiles feels, “We wouldn’t stand a chance against _him_ alone.”

“So, we make a bargain,” Derek starts again, “We’ll help you, and as I stated before, I know every way to kill any supernatural creature who might even think about crossing this territory, and I’m well aware of how this town is a beacon for them. For a very small price.”

“Name it,” Lydia tells him, and Stiles fells the gentle pressure against his tattoo, Lydia telling them all what they already know; all of them have almost died a number of times, only saved by quick thinking and the sheer number of the pack. Having a brood of vampires, especially one as strong as Derek, would give them a huge upper hand, at least at home, and the brood would not doubt be willing to watch over the territory while they were away, something they desperately needed.

“I get to feed from Stiles at least twice a month.”

“You want _him_ as your familiar,” Erica says with some amount of disbelief at the same moment that Malia and Jackson growl again, Allison letting out an obvious noise of disgust.

“Me?” Stiles asks, sharing Erica’s feelings. He can’t imagine a vamp wanting a _hunter_ as their familiar. Derek just cocks his head to the side, stares at Stiles.

“Best blood I’ve tasted in four hundred years,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders, face twitching in the slightest. Isaac makes a small noise from where’s he’s next to Derek, looking over to Derek with a somewhat concerned face that Stiles completely catches.

“No,” Scott says before Stiles can say a thing more, “Absolutely not.”

“I don’t think this is your decision,” Derek tells him, eyebrows raised as he turns to look at Stiles, cocking his head slightly to the side again. Stiles stares back at him, mouth a straight line. He can hear the grunts of disapproval behind him, but after a moment, he gives a small nod.

“Fine. Deal.”

“Stiles,” Lydia says from beside him, sounding scandalized, but he presses down on his tattoo roughly, watching as Derek’s eyes flick down to his fingers and back up to his face, smirking.

“I can handle it,” he says, glancing sideways quickly to gauge Scott and Lydia's faces – who’re both staring at him in blatant shock.

“You’re _human._ A pint of your blood every two weeks? You’re not going to be able to hunt very well on that,” Erica points out, and Stiles flicks his eyes to her. He gives a small smirk of his own.

“I’m a spark, actually. Any blood loss can easily be replaced by magic, I’ll be strong as ever.”

Stiles watches as things click in Erica, Isaac and Boyd’s minds. Derek continues to stand there, unmoving, small grin on his face.

“Stiles,” Allison starts, stepping forward half a foot. Stiles looks back at her, expectant.

“You don’t have to do this, we don’t _need_ them – ”

“Ally,” he stops her, smiling a bit, “We could use their help and everyone here knows it. It’ll be okay, and with a familiar, at least we won’t have to worry about him going out and killing innocent humans, right?”

Nobody says anything to that, and after a moment of silence Derek nods.

“Deal, then. The club closes in an hour, like I said, and then we can head out.”

Stiles nods in return, glancing back to his pack.

“We can head out and grab everything we need, meet back here.”

Although they all look disgruntled at the way things have gone down, everybody nods, and after a moment Scott gestures to the door.

“Let’s go,” he tells them, and they all file out, Lydia and Jackson and Allison and even Kira sending looks – glares – at Derek and his brood. Stiles is the last out, and Derek follows behind, placing a light hand at Stiles back, which he flinches away from instinctively. Derek is persistent, though, and brushes his lips against Stiles’ ear.

“Already looking forward to two weeks from now,” he whispers, and Malia, who’s in front of Stiles, lets out a growl but doesn’t turn around. Stiles does, sending Derek a look as he backs up a half-step. The vampire just smiles in return – an actual, soft smile, not a smirk, which throws Stiles a bit. Derek holds eye contact for half a moment before turning back to his brood, and Stiles watches him for just another second before he follows the rest of his pack down the hall, out the back door, not as sure as he had been about what he’s actually gotten himself into.


	3. our hearts, they were beating in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just relax,” Derek murmurs, pressing a couple of fingers to Stiles’ neck, and Stiles sighs even as he relaxes some against Derek’s chest.  
> “Right. Like I can relax knowing that your fangs are going to be in me in a moment.”  
> “Remember what it was like last time?” Derek’s voice is still quiet, soft and…almost careful. His breath is oddly cool against Stiles’ neck, though his fingers and body feel warm and comfortable.  
> “I passed out last time,” Stiles reminds him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **edit: 5.27.17**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> this is not a new work!
> 
> I'm moving the parts from my series "everyone's at it" into a chaptered fic because it makes more sense as a chaptered fic than as a series. also, I'm updating it probably later today again yay!
> 
> so there's a chance you've already read this. also, the original fic will stay up for a short while before I delete it.
> 
> thanks!
> 
> title from "We Are" by Hollywood Undead

**20:23** _I’m coming over_.

Stiles nervously bites his lip as he sends the text – nervousness he rarely feels, even in the face of death, but this was completely new territory, and he _hates_ new territory. How does he _do_ this? He rereads it, realizing that it seems kind of…rude. Which he doesn’t _necessarily_ care, but. He hasn’t seen Derek since they’d defeated the lamia, though he had seen Isaac and Erica at the grocery store a few days later. Erica’d smirked at him as Isaac had simply nodded once in greeting before pulling Erica along. But the thing was – he doesn’t think it was necessarily _prudent_ to be outright rude to them.

 **20:24** _We need to talk._ he quickly types out and sends, hoping it sounds formal enough but not hostile. They’re on – weirdly rocky, shaky ground, with Derek and his brood, Stiles thinks.

He’s still waiting for a text back ten minutes later, and he’s thinking about either just going over to the house the brood lives at or the club or maybe texting Derek again when his phone beeps, and he jumps a little bit, the soup he’d been eating sloshing on the table. He snarls at it, on instinct, and grabs his phone.

 **20:35 Derek Hale** _Meet me at the house at nine._

Stiles curses, looking down at himself: in pajamas because he hadn’t been out of his apartment all day, his dinner only half finished, and besides that, it takes a good half hour to get to the house the brood is staying at. He sighs, shoving his chair back and taking his bowl to the sink; at least he’d showered the night before – except, he doesn’t really care too much, except that _yes, Lydia, he does kind of want to impress the brood yet._ It’s human instinct, to want to impress others, right?

His phone beeps again, a familiar sound that lets him know it’s one of the pack. He grabs his phone, going down the hall to his bedroom.

 **20:36 Lyds** _We’re meeting at Scott and Ally’s apt eight tmrw. You good to drive up to OR?_

 **20:37** _yeah. Going to talk to Derek now._

He throws his phone on his bed, turning to his closet and grabbing jeans and a t-shirt, throwing them on as quickly as he can, running a hand through his hair before grabbing his jacket. His phone beeps again, and he grabs it as he walks back out to his front door, shoving his feet in his boots and grabbing his keys. He shoves the knife into his waistband out of habit from where it hangs next to his keys, and looks at his phone as he shuts off the lights and heads out the door.

 **20:39 Lyds** _Be careful. I don’t trust him._

Stiles snorts, shutting the door behind him and shoving his phone in his jacket pocket, locking his door. It’s not like he really trusts Derek, either, though he’d well proven himself in their fight against the lamia; he’d saved Stiles’ life when it’d lunged unexpectedly at him, and Isaac had ultimately been the one to finish it off. Interestingly, a weird, stilted camaraderie had quickly sprung up between Isaac and Scott, and Lydia had given a bit of a once-over and a grunt and small nod to Erica when Erica’d said “Oh, hey, I love your shoes”.

It was going to take a hell of a lot more than that to integrate the brood into the base of trust that the pack had built over many, many years, but Stiles can feel a certain amount of…acceptance already running through the pack.

And, the thing is, he feels weirdly nervous about meeting Derek now, but he knows that has more to do with the fact that it’s been two weeks and…

He actually doesn’t know. Whether he feels weird and nervous because it’s been two weeks or because Derek hasn’t _said_ anything yet or maybe because he’s kind of _disappointed_ that Derek hasn’t said anything yet.

He sighs, climbing into his jeep and pulling his phone out again.

 **20:40** _I’ll be fine. I’ll text you when I get home later._

And then he opens up his other text, biting his lip as he types it out.

 **20:41** _On my way._

*****

The huge mansion the brood are staying at is a well-known place to Beacon Hills. It’d belonged to one of the founders of the town who’d built it way back in the nineteenth century after striking real rich in the gold rush. They’d immediately bought up all the surrounding land and beyond that and created the Preserve, most of which was now owned by the town itself.

The mansion had been abandoned long before Stiles had been born, and he’d grown up to ghost stories about the place, and in high school it was a common dare to get someone to spend the night in the house (very few people actually went through with it, and those that did _swore_ that there was something there).

(Regardless, it isn’t until the pack are seniors and juniors in high school, two years after Scott, Jackson, Malia, and Lydia are bitten, a year after Allison discovers her family’s heritage as hunters, and just a few months after Kira joins the pack, that they figure out that the place actually _is_ haunted. It’s when Stiles and Scott go out to the place just to poke around they discover this, as well as the fact that Stiles is a spark – magic, it seems, is a conductor for the afterlife. It’s not a malevolent spirit, but they find the remains buried out back and burn them, officially releasing it.)

Last Stiles’d seen the place, it was falling apart; windows shattered, roof falling in, half the place a burned hull from a fire set by a teenager back just after Stiles’ dad had been elected Sheriff.

Now, Stiles notes as he climbs out of the jeep, it looks – livable. Although the burnt part is still partially there, the windows are replaced, doors intact, obviously being rebuilt. Light radiates from a couple of the windows in the front.

Nobody opens the door as Stiles approaches, though he knows that vamps have as good hearing as ‘wolves, and even humans can clearly hear when the jeep drives up (much as Stiles loves the vehicle, and as reliable as it is, it’s old and loud).

He knocks as he glances at his phone, Lydia having sent one more text.

 **Lyds 21:07** _Good luck_.

Derek opens the door just as Stiles is reading the text, and he startles at the sudden flood of light, silhouette of Derek in the doorway.

“Hey,” is what he says, stepping back from the doorway to let Stiles in, and Stiles walks in with a nod and a returned “Hey.”

The inside of the house looks relatively livable as well, drywall visible in at least the rooms Stiles can see from the entryway, floors definitely new hardwood, and there’s furniture, though it’s sparse, just couches and chairs and a table or two. Derek shuts the door, sliding past Stiles and brushing his hand across his back before walking toward what Stiles assumes is the living room. Scowl in place because they are _not_ comfortable enough to be casually touching each other, Stiles follows, only feeling a teensy bit ashamed that he checks Derek’s ass out (he’s wearing loose sweatpants, but damn, he _has_ got a nice ass – and, Stiles notes before averting his eyes, seriously nice back muscles).

Derek gestures to the couch when they get to the area as he sits down in one of the armchairs (that look _seriously_ comfortable, actually), and Stiles sits, looking around the room. There’s a TV above the fireplace that actually has a fire burning in it, which makes absolutely no sense considering vampires have no sense of temperature, and a really nice kitchen that looks to be mid-renovation, which also doesn’t make a lot of sense considering vampires don’t have to eat.

“Looks a lot better than the last time I saw it,” Stiles offers, glancing over at Derek who’s watching him with obvious amusement in his expression. He raises one eyebrow just a little bit and nods.

“We’ve been working pretty hard on it.”

Stiles hums, glancing away from Derek again and licking his lips, “Where’s the rest of your brood?”

“Out,” Derek replies, and he’s still staring at Stiles when he looks back. It’s disconcerting, and there’s a long pause before Derek continues.

“Erica and Boyd are at the club and Isaac said he was going to be with his familiar tonight.”

“Isaac has a familiar?” he asks, fully surprised and a little angry because this kind of shit is not –

“We need blood to live,” Derek interrupts his thoughts, “Of course he does. She’s aware of it, too, though she lives outside of your territory and it’s not your pack’s problem.”

“What about Erica and Boyd?” Stiles broaches, all thoughts of propriety and politeness going out the window because this _is_ actually shit they need to know about.

“They’re together. They generally find people for…ménage a trois’ and feed unknowingly from them. And from each other then.”

“That’s possible?” Stiles asks. Derek pauses, then nods.

“They have to feed more often – every couple of weeks rather than every month like most vampires – but yes. It helps them feel closer to each other, too.” 

“But – you have to feed every couple of weeks.” At least, Stiles really hopes he does, because that’s what he’s told them, and if he’s lied about that Stiles certainly isn’t going to be the only one seriously pissed off about it.

“I’m like the alpha in a pack,” Derek explains, “It takes more to keep me grounded. Although I, like Erica and Boyd, can go more than two weeks without feeding, it’s best if it doesn’t have to get to that because after two weeks the hunger starts to get unbearable.”

“Oh.” Stiles supposes that makes sense, “I’m glad I came over then.”

Derek cocks his head slowly to the side, curiosity replacing the amusement in his eyes.

“Why _did_ you come over?”

“We’re, uh, we’re leaving tomorrow. There’s a group of skinwalkers wreaking havoc in Oregon and another pack wants us there to help take care of them.”

“Skinwalkers?” Derek asks, looking even more curious.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, looking at the fire because Derek’s stare is seriously disconcerting, even with his human, pretty green eyes.

“Hmm. I’ve never actually met any.”

Stiles’ eyes go back to find Derek’s without a thought, surprised. Derek looks truthful, more curious than anything, and that is something Stiles can relate to; the constant curiosity when meeting with something new, the thirst for more knowledge on all things supernatural.

“First time we met them we thought they were just weres. But they smell different, according to the actual weres in the pack, and besides that, they don’t generally care about exposing themselves or the entire supernatural world to the unknowing, very unlike weres. They have no sense of self-preservation, though I don’t think they’re aware of it.”

“Is what they say about skinwalkers true? How you become one, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says with another nod, smile falling off his face as he thinks about the process, “You have to kill the animal you want to become, don it’s pelt, say a spell. They’re rare, of course, and usually when we come across a pack of them it’s because a group of teenagers stumbled across the spell. But when they actually become the skinwalker...they usually lose control of their faculties.”

Derek hums, eyebrows scrunching together as he thinks about this, for the first time dropping his eyes from Stiles and looking at the floor. Silence ensues for a few short moments before Stiles shifts and Derek is looking at him again, expression suddenly amused again.

“So, um, that’s what I came to tell you. The entire pack is going, this time; the group in Oregon is large, one of the largest we’ve ever heard of. So if you could, uh, keep an eye on this place, that’d be great.”

Stiles shifts again, but doesn’t actually rise to move, waiting for Derek to say something. He doesn’t, the quick pattern of Stiles’ heartbeat obviously cluing him in, but the amusement in his eyes and annoying smug expression grows as they sit there again in quiet.

“That, and, uh, y’know…” Stiles tries, but Derek just hitches an eyebrow, and god, Stiles hates him. So he gets up, abruptly, turning and facing him with his own annoyed expression.

“That’s all. I’ll see you when - ”

“It’s okay, Stiles,” Derek interrupts, amusement falling into softness, nodding at the couch, “We don’t want me going hungry, do we?”

“God, you’re an asshole,” Stiles mumbles as he falls back into the couch, watching Derek stand and walk slowly over to him. He sits down in the opposite end, folding his legs up under him and raising both eyebrows.

“C’mere,” he tells Stiles, patting the part of the couch just in front of his folded legs, and Stiles stares at the spot for a moment before looking back up at Derek.

“Um.”

Derek rolls his eyes, which when he’d met him Stiles wouldn’t have said was something he would ever see.

“Do you want to be comfortable?”

Stiles rolls his eyes this time but agrees, shuffling down the sofa and with one last, long look at Derek, turns his back to him, about to settle when a hand stops him.

“Easier if you take your jacket off.”

The voice is nearly directly in his ear as the hand starts to slide Stiles’ coat off his shoulder. Stiles jerks away, pulling his coat off himself as he glares at Derek. He’s just leaning back again when Derek’s hand stops him again, this time near the small of his back and pulling out his – oh, yeah.

“Really?” Derek asks flatly as he holds the knife, expression matching his tone of voice. Stiles sighs, holding his own hand out for it.

“Force of habit,” he replies as Derek carefully sets the knife into his open palm, eyes never leaving it. He tosses it to the end of the couch on top of his jacket. “Plus it’s Beacon Hills. Better not to go out without something to defend myself.”

Derek considers this for a moment, nodding in assent before he places on hand on Stiles’ hip, the other on his shoulder and maneuvers him back so Stiles is leaning against his chest. Stiles grumbles, for a moment, but lets himself be moved because Derek’s done this before, and he hasn’t, and he figures if he passes out he’d rather Derek catch him than fall off the couch, honestly.

“Just relax,” Derek murmurs, pressing a couple of fingers to Stiles’ neck, and Stiles sighs even as he relaxes some against Derek’s chest.

“Right. Like I can relax knowing that your fangs are going to be in me in a moment.”

“Remember what it was like last time?” Derek’s voice is still quiet, soft and…almost careful. His breath is oddly cool against Stiles’ neck, though his fingers and body feel warm and comfortable.

“I passed out last time,” Stiles reminds him, and he can almost _feel_ the eye roll that he’s sure Derek gives him. He’s about to turn, see his face because now he’s curious, when he feels pinpricks to his neck, followed very quickly by a sharper, deeper pain, and then –

Then, for a half second it’s an odd stinging sensation, but then it’s absolutely amazing. At first it’s like an out of body experience, one that quickly turns way too _good_ to be that, and then – Stiles thinks briefly, briefly enough that he doesn’t have time to argue with himself – that it’s absolutely _as good as_ if not _better_ than an orgasm, seriously, holy shit, like he can feel magic running through his veins even as the sucking sensation continues.

A second later, his world fades to black.

***

As life is, Stiles once again wakes up comfortably, fingers threading through his hair. He blinks slowly, feeling sluggish and tired, before he realizes where he is – at the brood’s houses and, currently, lying across Derek’s body, head on his chest. He tries to sit up immediately, only this time to be stopped by the arm that Derek had slung across his body, and his arm goes out to catch himself, his elbow slamming into Derek’s thigh. Derek, for his part, just huffs laughingly and grabs the arm that’s still leaning on his leg, positioning Stiles so that he’s still against Derek but sitting up more.

“I passed out again,” Stiles says after a moment, looking at Derek’s face. Derek nods, hand that was sliding through his hair instead brushing along his arm. It’s strangely comforting, and Stiles lets it go even though he can feel his heartbeat pick up slightly as he realizes it.

“Most humans do the first few times, and quite a few do every time. You _are_ getting about a pint of blood taken out of you.”

Stiles closes his eyes, yawning a little and leaning heavier into Derek.

“Thought my spark would help me out with that.”

Derek snorts, fingers still idling over Stiles’ arm.

“Maybe if you knew how to control your spark better.”

“Wait - what do you know about sparks?” Stiles asks, eyes suddenly open and wide and staring at Derek’s face. Derek hitches an eyebrow at him.

“What do you want to know about sparks?”

Stiles huffs, glancing up at the ceiling.

“Everything,” he breaths, eyes catching Derek’s again, “I don’t know much. There’s a druid, the – ”

“Vet, yes, I know,” Derek confirms with a nod, and when Stiles doesn’t say anything and just stares at him curiously, he rolls his eyes, “I told you before, we did our research before coming here. We knew every supernatural creature that resides here.” There’s a pause, then he continues with his eyebrows drawn in.

“Well, except you. Thought you were human because your power isn’t very advanced.”

“That’s the _thing_ ,” Stile continues, huffing, “Deaton – the druid – he was an emissary for a pack down in San Francisco for years before a change of power took place and he was replaced, but he doesn’t know a whole lot about sparks. He told me that he doesn’t think sparks can train their powers very much, that’s why I don’t have as much control as I’d like or why my magic isn’t very advanced – ”

“Sparks have a _lot_ of inherent power,” Derek interrupts, watching Stiles with a small smile, “More than any other magical creature, except some types of fae. Witches don’t have a lot of power, but they can train what they do have over many years. Druids, nymphs, and the like have an exponentially higher amount of power, but they too have to train for long periods of time to use it, and even then can only use it directly through spells and potions. Fae and sparks are at the highest end of the inherent and natural power and talent, but it can’t be trained, that’s true. It’s something you have to come into naturally.”

Stiles huffs again, settling down to the back of couch, half resting on Derek’s arm. He still feels tired and drained, and tries to pull some of his magic up because he’s gotta drive for hours tomorrow and then they’re gonna have a pack of skinwalkers to take care of.

“And how do I come into it naturally?”

Derek pauses, shifting his arm and brushing his fingers along one of Stiles’ tattoos on his wrist.

“I’m not sure. I think it’s different for everyone, but I think it has a lot to do with getting in touch with yourself and getting to know your own power.”

Stiles snorts, looking incredulously at Derek.

“Is this supposed to be some sort of spiritual awakening or something?”

“You’re an asshole,” Derek informs him, like Stiles doesn’t already know this about himself, “But in a way, yes. I think…I learned the most I know about sparks during the ‘60s, so part of that might just be the whole hippie movement, since a lot of magical entities were into the hippie thing.”

Stiles outright laughs this time, but Derek just sighs, his hand pausing where it’s still on Stiles’ wrist.

“Just lay back and think about your spark,” he suggests as soon as Stiles has stopped laughing, and Stiles looks amused but nonetheless does as Derek says, relaxing and closing his eyes, thinking about his spark – something he’s always imagined as this red, sometimes blue light emanating from his chest, near his heart, and he focuses on that, the always-there, low thrum of energy just below the surface of his skin.

“Think about how much power you have,” Derek whispers, fingers brushing lightly across his palm, then the inside of his wrist, leaving a tingling sensation behind, and Stiles does, taking a deep breath and forcing that apparent inherent magic further toward the surface, and – his heartbeat suddenly evens out from where it’s always jackrabbit-ing all over the place, a sudden calmness overtaking his entire body from where it hasn’t been since he can remember, his ADD always forcing him to quickly move from one thing to the next, unable to dispel all of the energy from his body. He still can feel an energy, but it’s different, calmer and softer.

More than that, he can suddenly feel Derek next to him – not just his body, not even his fingers still tracing light patterns into Stiles’ skin, but his actual presence; the presence of a vampire, icy-cool aura something that’s always _been_ there but not something Stiles has been able to actively feel, which he now can.

“I can feel it,” Derek whispers, and Stiles jerks at that, opening his eyes. He can still sense Derek’s aura, even as he looks directly at him, and the usual magical energy thrumming through his veins is stronger already.

“Whoa,” is all he says, and Derek smiles genuinely.

“And you’re a hell of a lot more powerful than that,” he says quietly, eyes sparkling, and Stiles blinks, smiling back at Derek. They stay that way, staring at each other for a long moment before the smile suddenly drops off Derek’s face and he looks over toward the wall. Stiles follows his gaze to see a clock, and his stomach drops a little when he realizes it’s nearly eleven and that he must’ve been out for quite a while. He clears his throat, feeling better, and sits up fully, taking his arm back from Derek.

“I, uh, should probably get going. ‘ve got a hell of a drive tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Derek replies, eyes as suddenly on Stiles again as they’d left, “Good luck.”

Stiles nods, averting his own eyes and standing. He feels Derek’s hand brush against the small of his back as he also rises, but he ignores it in favour of grabbing his jacket and the knife sitting on top of it. After he’s shoved it on and carefully put the knife back into his waistband, he turns once more to look at Derek, nodding mostly to himself.

“Um, so thanks for the…for helping me with my spark,” he says after another long moment staring at each other, and Derek looks surprised for a moment before he smiles softly again.

“You’re welcome. Maybe we can work on it some more when you get back.”

Which reminds Stiles that _this_ is definitely not a one-time thing. He smiles at the idea as they walk toward the door, Derek’s fingers brushing against the back of Stiles’ hand as he reaches around him to open the door.

“I’ll let you know how it goes,” he says, and Derek leans on the door, pausing mid-nod to look out toward the woods with a short laugh, shaking his head. Stiles looks curiously at him.

“You can tell your pack that you’re perfectly safe here and they don’t have to send someone to check up on you every time you come out,” Derek replies to his look, and Stiles glances out toward the woods in time to see a flash of blue eyes before there’s an obvious scampering away, and he rolls his eyes – _Lydia, honestly_.

“I could, but I doubt they’d listen anyway,” he replies, pausing for just another moment before slipping out the door, lifting his hand in a half-wave as he walks out onto the porch. Derek stays leaning against the open door, watching as Stiles gets to his car.

“Good luck,” he calls out just as Stiles climbs in, and he just smiles to himself as he closes the door and starts the vehicle up.


	4. and the terror, and the horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stops, feeling the tears in his eyes and he will not fucking cry, he won’t, not in front of Derek and not right now and not about this, not anymore. He’s done with that. He takes a deep breath, leaning forward so his elbows are on his knees and staring down at his hands and thinks as he speaks next. 
> 
> “I don’t know whether I can face them, knowing - or - or thinking that there’s nothing more that we deserve than to die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck everything
> 
> no not really but this has been in the works for too damn long and I'm always constantly disappointed by how long it takes me to write things. just. writers block man. fucks you up.
> 
> anyway yay here we are! if you aren't up to date, I reposted the stuff in the "everyone's at it" series as a chaptered fic as it made more sense that way; the original works will be deleted soon. 
> 
> enjoy, let me know if it's at all splintered or anything of the like bc like I said, I've been writing this for so long. 
> 
> chapter title from "Sober II (Melodrama)" by Lorde.

Stiles feels - well, he feels super fucking gross, he thinks as he climbs out of his car a week later. It’s a good thing it’s three in the morning and there’s nobody around, because he _looks_ fucking gross too. He’s covered in witch blood, which is sticky and blue-tinted, and some skinwalker blood too, which is mostly red but just as sticky, just as hard to get out of clothing and hair. They’d left for Beacon HIlls as soon as they took care of the skinwalkers and the witch who had been controlling them, no time to stop for a shower or a bed and -

And _fuck_ , Stiles thinks as he gets inside his apartment, shutting the door and immediately leaning back against it. He’s fucking exhausted, physically and mentally and _emotionally_ . The skinwalkers had turned out to be just fucking teenagers, in above their heads and being controlled by this stupid witch. This _evil_ witch. The witch had been easy enough to take care of - not too powerful, and not a match really even for just Stiles, besides the entire pack. The skinwalkers hadn’t been much either, but - but they were just _teenagers_. They’d lost their humanity though, completely and utterly consumed by the pelts they had donned during the original ceremony, animals with only some semblance of human intelligence left.

The pack had had no choice but to kill them.

It didn’t mean that didn’t hurt. Fucking _ache_ , really, because Stiles remembers clearly when the pack were just teenagers over their head, too, and it isn’t like any of _them_ are innocent. They’ve all killed, and occasionally killed people who didn’t deserve it. Like fuck, Allison had almost killed all of _them_ at one point, and no matter how good Scott is and tries to be he’s also been to blame for innocent lives being lost before. Who the fuck are they to say when people deserve to live and deserve to die? Who the fuck are they to kill off a bunch of innocent teenagers just because they -

Stiles slides down the door, clutching his head between his hands. He’s so fucking tired, and he’s still covered in goop and he needs to shower and he needs to get to bed but he doesn’t even think he could sleep right now, not really.

It’s moments later that there’s a knock on his door and he jumps, physically, because what the hell? He knows the pack is all at their various homes - he’d dropped Allison and Scott off and then Isaac, and through the pack bond he can feel that the rest of them are across the town in various apartments and homes, none of them at his doorstep. Who the fuck else would be at his door at three a.m. after a mission, though? Maybe one of his neighbors had seen him, want to make sure he’s okay. He gets up, slowly, blinking heavily, looking through the peephole. It’s - Derek?

“The fuck are you doing here?” Stiles asks as he opens the door, squinting because he’s suspicious as hell. How would Derek know they were back, why would Derek come over _now_? He’s not - he wonders if Derek is hungry, but he’s definitely not up to that right now.

“Scott texted me,” Derek says. He’s not smiling, not even smirking like usual. If Stiles didn’t know better he’d say Derek looks somewhat _concerned_ , but Stiles doesn’t think it’s possible for Derek to look anything but smug or hardened.

“And?”

Derek shrugs.

“He said you were pretty out of it, might forget to let me know that you guys were back. I could sense you all were back, but I just...wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, because that doesn’t seem like the Derek he’s met before.

“Can I come in?” Derek eventually asks. Stiles doesn’t really want to say yes - he’s _really_ exhausted, just wants to shove himself in the shower as quickly as possible and flop down on his bed and at least attempt to sleep the rest of the night and well into tomorrow (thank the fucking lord he doesn’t have a regular day job like some of the pack; Allison and Scott couldn’t afford not to open up shop the next day, and Kira didn’t have any more vacation days left at the school, favorite teacher or not. Malia had to go into the department the next day as well; the Sheriff was generous on time off given, especially when it came to supernatural matters, but they were short on deputies since one was out on maternity leave and another had been hurt in the line of duty the week previous). But he also feels like it would be - rude, maybe? - to turn Derek away at this point, three fucking a.m. or not, their allyship still seeming too tenuous to risk impoliteness.

“Do I have to invite you in?” he gets around to asking instead, because honestly now he’s curious; he only knows so much about vampires, until this brood had never met one in real life, so a lot of his knowledge is based off stupid myths and legends and he can only wonder how many of them are real.

Derek, for his part, rolls his eyes but there’s something akin to a smile on his face, just a hint of his trademark smirk.

“No, this isn’t some fucking Grimm brother’s fairy tale,” he grunts. Stiles cocks his head to the side.

“I don’t think the Grimm brothers ever wrote a fairy tale about vampires, actually,” he points out, and Derek rolls his eyes again and sighs.

“It’s just a nice thing to do, ask before you barge into other people’s residences.”

Stiles nods, shrugs, and opens the door further, stepping back and out of the way to let Derek in. He walks in slowly, looking around like he’s taking in Stiles’ living conditions, which are actually pretty nice thank you very much. Derek doesn’t comment, just looks around for a moment and then turns back to Stiles as the latter shuts the door behind him, clicking both the deadbolt and sliding in the chain lock. Derek does raise his eyebrows at that.

“Beacon Hills, dude, and I’m a fucking spark; like god damn catnip to supernatural creatures. They always come after me, even though Scott’s a true alpha and all that shit, they  _should_ be going after him."

Derek’s eyebrows knit together again as he takes this Stiles in, and Stiles understands it, he really does; he’s a goddamn asshole on his good days, but right now, exhausted and feeling like absolute shit, he really is something else.

“I - just wanted to make sure you were alright. If there’s - with all of you, if there’s anything me or the brood can do, let me know.”

Derek pauses, seems out of his element in a way that Stiles hasn’t seen him. They’ve only had a few interactions, it’s only been a near month since their initial meeting, but Derek has always seemed so sure of himself. Stiles stays silent as Derek sighs deeply, then continues.

“I know you - I read up some more on skinwalkers while you were gone, and asked Scott when he called what happened. He told me, said it fucked you all up, but you especially, that you took out three of them by yourself. What I'm trying to say is - I get it, I really do.”

Stiles isn’t sure that he _does_ , actually, this is a feeling - he gets that the brood are supernatural, fucking _vampires_ , and as a part of this world they’re more likely than humans to have this kind of shit - but this is _different_ . The realization, though it’s not his first time, but the realization that you’re no better than the things you say you _have_ to kill to protect others - it sucks. It’s guilt, and anger, and things and feelings that Stiles doesn’t even have a _name_ for.

“You’ve had to kill someone who’s essentially  innocent before?” Stiles asks, and it’s harsh, it is, but Derek doesn’t so much as flinch. He stares right back, blinks slowly, and sighs.

“Haven’t we all?”

He sounds - maybe resigned, with a bit of wistful thrown in there. He’s not looking directly at Stiles anymore, glancing off to the side now, honest to god _sad_ which wasn’t something Stiles ever thought he’d see on Derek.

“I just - ” Derek starts again, then stops, gets a genuinely good look at Stiles.

“Why don’t you go take a shower. I’ll make you - some tea, or hot cocoa, or whatever hot drink you want. And after that, if you want to talk about it, we can.”

This side of Derek is new, and Stiles isn’t quite sure he wants to trust him. Not in his home, not in his life in this way - Derek is a vampire, fucking cocky as hell and new and besides everything else, it’s still freaky to think about the fact that he drank from Stiles without consent. He gets it, but that doesn’t make it any less creepy or terrible.

But something in Derek’s eyes is genuine, which is something Stiles doesn’t see in many people these days, sometimes even missing from himself or his pack, so instinct is telling him Derek is _okay_. More than okay. Maybe good. Maybe better than him.

It’s a little much to think about at three a.m. when he’s running on about six hours of sleep over the past five days, but nothing sounds better right now than a cup of tea.

“Kitchen’s that way. Electric kettle, tea bags and mugs are in the far left upper cabinet. I’ll, uh, I’ll only be a short while.”

“Take your time. Nothing like a hot shower when you’re feeling like shit,” Derek replies with a hint of a smile, something more legitimate than the usual one on his face. Stiles only watches him for another second as Derek shrugs off his jacket before he turns toward the stairs. The blood and whatever else, dried long ago, are starting to itch, and Derek’s right - a hot shower, fucking steaming, might make him feel better.

*

It doesn’t, actually - not by a long shot, but when Stiles emerges from the shower he’s at least clean, skin scrubbed with as much force as he could muster, trying to clean off some of the shame that was covering him like a blanket wrapped a little too tight. He feels raw, both literally and figuratively, and almost forgets that Derek’s in his apartment as he throws on some boxers, about to make his way downstairs when a clatter from the kitchen reminds him. He sighs, as it’s nearing quarter to four in the morning and he just wants to curl up in a ball in his bed, not host company. He’s still not sure why he didn’t just tell Derek to shove off, go away, let him feel like this in fucking peace.

He puts on some sweatpants and an old t-shirt instead, pads downstairs and toward the kitchen. Derek is sitting at the bar, two mugs of tea on the counter in front of him. He’s drinking from one, looking down at his phone and he’s taken off his shoes as well, relatively comfortable being in an apartment he’s never been in before that night - morning - whatever. He looks up when Stiles descends, again giving him that barely-there smile that’s soft and comforting and still, Stiles doesn’t know how to _react_ to that.

Derek pushes the mug toward the other side of the bar as Stiles approaches.

“Lemon chamomile. Comforting. Good for settling emotions and stomachs,” he offers, and Stiles quirks an eyebrow at him, not expecting Derek to know anything about tea.

“Herbal teas have been used for centuries for various afflictions. I’ve been around too many humans who use them not to have done some research myself,” Derek says in explanation, and Stiles just nods, not quite trusting himself to say anything else at the moment. He picks up the cup and flicks his head toward the living room again, padding off toward it; the scrape of the stool legs against the tile floor and small clink of ceramic against countertop telling Stiles that Derek is following. He curls up at one end of the couch, and Derek settles in in the armchair next to it. There’s a moment of silence, only broken by the occasional sip of tea, not awkward but not exactly comfortable, and they’re not looking at each either.

“If you don’t want to talk about it tonight - this morning - I’m, uh, free most days too. Either at home or at the club. If you ever want to talk, about this or anything else. I know,” Derek pauses, actually looks up at Stiles and Stiles stares back, “I know it can be hard to talk to those who you’re closest to. Sometimes it's too much to say, sometimes it involves them.”

That’s exactly it, and the way that Derek seems to just sense that, with Stiles who doesn’t show emotions easily, doesn’t live with his heart out on his sleeve like Scott and Kira do, is often even more held back than Malia - that scares Stiles. How Derek just - does that. Knows. Understands. The look in his eyes tells Stiles that he knows _exactly_ what he’s feeling, deep and sad and older than they should for someone who looks so young as he does.

“I just,” he starts, then shakes his head, breaking eye contact with Derek again. His voice is a bit rough (he won’t admit it to anyone and especially not Derek, but he’d had a bit of a cry in the shower, the only place he really lets himself cry anymore, where he can’t tell when his tears ended and the water begins; the only place he feels safe enough, out of danger enough, to let those emotions loose), and he clears his throat. It doesn’t matter. He’s not, far from, ready to talk about this yet. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe never, Stiles doesn’t know. How to put this into words, what he’s feeling. How he always seems to feel these days after defeating what they have deemed as “evil”.

“Why do you guys even have the club? Surely you don’t need the income,” he says in lieu of talking about any of it. It’s - he keeps telling himself he should kick Derek out, cuddle up to himself in a blanket and maybe watch some mindless Netflix show until his brain shuts down enough to pass out on the couch, but there’s also that part of himself that he doesn’t know where it came from, that part that seems to trust Derek if for no other reason than that he seems to understand all of this.

Derek shrugs, taking another drink of tea.

“We don’t. We’ve all been around too long, too many years, and have always pooled our money, so we have more than enough to last for at least the next three hundred years at least. Helps when you don’t have to pay for food very often. But it gives us something to do. Take care of. When you don’t sleep, don’t eat, it leaves lots of extra time.”

“Why don’t you just travel? Like, with that much money, with that much time, you could _see_ so much,” Stiles points out. That’s what he would do if he had the time and money and didn’t have the responsibility to protect Beacon Hills. The world felt endless, and he’d spent most of his life in this tiny town; college in LA had felt _perfect_ , he loved everything about the city. The people, the culture, the diversity, the experiences, and he’d wanted nothing more than to stay there after getting his degree. But he really hadn’t felt like he’d had a choice, when the pack was in Beacon Hills, when his dad was, when everything he ever loved was, not to mention people that felt in constant trouble, the town never quiet, especially after they’d reawakened the Nemeton back in their junior year.

“We did, we have, but,” Derek shrugs, “It’s not easy to travel, not when you’re vampires. There’s hunters to look out for, other vampires, other supernatural creatures. Wolves, as I’m sure you know, don’t like us much. There’s too many wolves in North America, too many other vampires in Europe. Too many hunters everywhere. Too hard to find food sources when you’re constantly on the move; familiars are easier to deal with than one nighters.”

Makes sense, Stiles supposes. His tea is gone, by now, and he leans forward, places the mug on the coffee table. A silence falls, not necessarily uncomfortable, and they sit there for a couple of minutes before Stiles grabs the remote for the TV, gesturing toward Derek.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

Derek shakes his head, setting his own mug down on the coffee table. Stiles turns on the television, switching through to Netflix and then through all his suggestions before he lands on some show he’s vaguely heard of and can probably binge on for the next couple of days to get his mind off things. It’s about ten minutes into the show before Derek speaks up again.

“Do you want me to leave?”

It’s maybe the best opportunity for Stiles to say yes - besides this weird sense of agreeableness that they’re having tonight, he still doesn’t know if he quite trusts Derek. Hasn’t known him long enough, hasn’t had enough interaction. Sure, Derek’s drank from him twice without draining him or anything like that, didn’t take the chance to kill Stiles when they were alone in his office, _offered_ to help the pack take care of the lamia. Fucking came over an hour ago at the drop of a hat when Scott had texted him. And while Stiles knows vampires don’t sleep and the club was closed by then so it wasn’t necessarily the greatest inconvenience for Derek to check up on him, it was certainly unexpected. And yet - Stiles doesn’t know if that’s enough to say that he _trusts_ him.

So he could say yes, yes please go away, I just want to wallow in myself until I conk out from pure exhaustion, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks over at Derek, who’s carefully watching him, and shakes his head, because - he wants company. He wants the company of someone who won’t try to pry anything out of him and who’ll just sit in silence with him and watch a stupid show.

“Only if you want to. I - I could use this. Um. Y’know,” he says, because he doesn’t want to say that he _needs_ Derek, even though he feels like he really, really does, right now. And Derek doesn’t ask him what he means, just nods and turns back toward the TV.

*

When Stiles wakes up it’s to sunlight streaming brightly through his window, only he’s - not in his bedroom. Instead he’s laying on his couch, only with a pillow and blanket that definitely hadn’t been on his couch the previous night. He doesn’t remember much, just that - oh, yeah, Derek. He blinks, looking around the living room, seeing nothing out of place or out of the ordinary, and Stiles wonders if the night had been a really fucking weird dream or not, because it doesn't feel real - that part of Derek doesn’t feel like it could have been, could be. But his TV’s off, the mugs that were on the table are gone, and _he_ didn’t do either of those things.

He looks to the clock, sees it’s nearly ten a.m. He could definitely go back to sleep, but knows he should check his phone because the pack always text a lot the day after they get back. Especially hard ones like this one had been. He reaches for where his phone was, but doesn’t find it. Automatically, he sits up, looks over to the kitchen counter where his charger is, and sees it plugged in, though he definitely doesn’t remember plugging it in the night before. He stretches, pushing the blanket completely off and yawning widely before getting up from the couch to pad over to the kitchen.

The mugs are clean and in the drying rack next to the sink, which is unexpected. There’s a box from the patisserie down the street, the _Lou’s_ cursive logo adorning the top of the box, and a note stuck to his phone, which is fully charged.

_Plugged in your phone, battery was almost dead. Hope you got enough sleep. Pastries are some of the best in town, or so I’ve been told, hope you enjoy. I’ll be at the club doing paperwork all day, if you want to stop by and talk. If not today, just let me know when. I’ll always lend an ear._

_\- Derek_

And - okay. This all still seemed so unreal, Derek’s handwriting unfamiliar - pretty, loopy, obviously learned before there were even so much as fountain pens, but the pastries are there and the note is and the mugs and his phone is charged and it obviously wasn’t a dream. Derek took _care of him_ the previous night - morning - whatever, and is still offering to.

Stiles isn’t quite sure what to think of it all, and he’s still exhausted and it’s a lot, so he moves the note and grabs his phone, unplugging it. Sure enough, there are a few messages on the group chat, and Stiles grabs a raspberry danish and heads back out to the living room, switching on the TV before he bothers to open any of the messages, desperately needing the background noise right then. Once it’s on some daytime show or another, and the danish is half gone, he actually opens his phone, reading through the messages.

 **Scotty:** _everyone up for dinner @ me and ally’s tonight?_

 **Lydia:** _I’ve got a meeting with a client at five but if we can make it six or six thirty I can make it._

 **Ally:** _Six thirty for sure, we’re going to stay open a bit later today to make up for the last week_

 **Lydia:** _Jackson and I’ll be there then. Anything I need to bring?_

 **Scotty:** _some of those cokies from that shop on 6th if you can swing it. were making pasta, prob alfredo_

 **Scotty:** _*cookies_

 **Jax:** _I guess I will be there_

 **Kira:** _I can grab the cookies its on my way home anyway_

**Maleeea:** _ 6:30, yes _

**Kira:** _ Stiles you think you could make that great tomato salad you made for 4th of july?? _

**Lydia:** _ Ooooh yes, that was great. _

That’s the last message, sent nearly a half hour ago, and - 

Well, yes, he wants to go, wants to see his pack but he also  _ doesn’t _ . Doesn’t want to face them right now, because they’re just as much to blame for this all as he is. Sure, yes, out of the six skinwalkers he actually took out three of them, because - well.

Scott was great and all, he was the best, but he had trouble making hard decisions. Jackson was an ass but he had trouble killing things too, and more than that always looked to Scott as his moral compass. Malia knew more than any of them that sometimes you had to kill something to survive yourself, but that’s all that was about; survival. Kira was too nice, too good, could injure to save herself and her friends and her pack and her family, but had never - she’d never been in charge of the actual killing, too much for her. They all did their best to protect her from that, knew she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she had to do that. Allison was better about it, having come from a hunter family and been hardened by their teenage years in a way that few of the rest of them had had to deal with. So it often came down to him, and Lydia, and Allison, the only non-weres. The ones without advanced senses, the most human or human-like of any of them, because they would -  _ they would  _ do  _ anything _ that needed to be done to protect their families and friends, pack, and other innocent bystanders. 

Scott had almost wanted to leave the skinwalkers, see how they would form on their own, maybe catch them and release into the wild woods, but Stiles - he and Lydia knew how it had to be. They’d done the research. The witch - sure, she was actually evil, was actually hurting people, okay, nobody said a thing when Malia ripped out her throat, though many of them had had to look away. But the skinwalkers - they would, surely, cause less harm once they were out from the control of the witch? 

But they were no less dangerous; perhaps even more. Where the witch had been controlling them and using them to target specific people, skinwalkers on their own had less control, but still were reflective of the process of how they had become what they had; evil had created them, and evil controlled them. Witchcraft that involved the killing of any living creature, human or supernatural or animal, always wrought evil, even if the teenagers hadn’t done anything to deserve it. They were a product of themselves, and nothing would change that. 

Stiles and Lydia told Scott that much, because he was in charge, whether they thought it was for the best or not. Jackson, Kira, Malia, and even to a point Allison, wouldn’t do something like this without his approval. 

Scott had hesitated, and the skinwalkers had attacked. Stiles and Lydia, prepared for them, were able to react quicker than the rest of them, which had resulted in Stiles takes out three of them by himself, Lydia killing one and injuring another.

It was hard to look the others in the eye after that, because regardless of if they’d been provoked, the pack had still killed teenagers. Fucking  _ teenagers _ . 

He’s not sure he can face the pack tonight, not yet, maybe with a couple more days, but they’re all going to worry about him if he doesn’t show up. Going to question him. And it might be easier if he just shows up, makes the tomato salad and takes it and puts on a happier face. 

He doesn’t know quite what to do, so instead he closes the app and opens his messages instead. His hand hovers over Derek’s message, only the third down on his list because the only person he texts on the regular is his dad, staying in contact with the rest of the pack through the app except for on occasion. Instead, he clicks on his dad’s name.

**10:21** _ Think you get a lunch off and meet me at the diner near the station? _

He fully doesn’t expect his dad to text back right away; the sheriff always had things to do, people to look over, cases to solve, and always so much paperwork to fill out and deal with, so Stiles finishes off the danish he has and goes back into the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee before grabbing the blanket and pillow from the living room and going up to his room to get dressed. 

It’s after he’s brushed his teeth and shaved, when he’s pouring himself some coffee, that his phone beeps.

**10:50** _ Glad you all are back. 12:30. _

It’s as short and to the point as his dad’s texts always are, and Stiles feels thankful once again that after a few years of being in the know of the supernatural world, and with Malia working at the station, that his dad has stopped asking why he doesn’t want to meet him at the station after hunting trips. It’s not that - Malia, with all she’s grown since sixteen and making her way back into civilization, is still the least likely of all of the pack to ask questions, but she’s getting close to Lydia-levels of concern for her friends. Muted, but there. And there are times, like now, that he doesn’t want to face them -  _ any  _ of them - which was hard to do as Malia was often at the station and he could never know for sure if she would be there when he showed up, plus the fact that Kira often visited Malia there and  _ Kira _ was one hundred percent the type to ask questions, show concern, worry.

His dad got it - maybe didn’t understand why Stiles was like that, but got that he didn’t want to see them. 

**10:51** _ 12:30. I’ll get there a bit early and get a table. _

And then Stiles tries not to think about it - anything, really, continues drinking his coffee and turns the TV over to a cooking show he’ll actually partially pay attention to and scrolls through his phone, looking at Twitter and flipping through Instagram and steadfastly ignoring Facebook like he has been for near a year and a half now (mostly to avoid seeing his friends, classmates, from high school and college, off and adventuring while he’s stuck here fighting would-be monsters terrorizing unsuspecting towns - fuck, he’s  _ jealous _ , he is). But after that’s all done and it’s only just past eleven a.m. and he still feels like utter shit, he gets another cup of coffee and opens his texts again. 

His finger hovers about Derek’s name again, until he just clicks it, and then. 

Well, he doesn’t even know what to write. He sips coffee and watches Giada De Laurentiis making some arugula-based salad in Italy and tries to think of what to write. 

**11:23** _ Okay if I swing by the club around 1:30?  _

He presses send before he can stop himself from doing so and it’s. Feels crazy, really, thinking on it, that he’s texting a practical stranger and a vampire no less because he wants to  _ talk _ , because he can’t say everything he wants to to his pack because they suck, too, and he can’t say everything he wants to to his father because that’ll worry him too much and he doesn’t need that, not when he already has to worry about an entire police force and a town and the pack as it is. 

He jumps when his phone goes off just a moment later, not expecting a text back so quickly.

**11:24** _ Club won’t be open but the backdoor will be unlocked. _

It’s weirdly relieving, and so he doesn’t dwell on it too much, Stiles closes the message and instead opens up the pack’s conversation, staring at it for another few moments before typing out his reply.

**Stiles** _be there with tomato salad._

Before he sends it he stares at it for a little while longer. He doesn’t - he knows he doesn’t want to go, but doesn’t know if he wants to pretend like he didn’t charge his phone or some shit either that would get him out of going without massively worrying the pack or cluing them in on his less-than-friendly feelings toward them right then.

He saves the message instead of sending it, sets his phone down on the table and gets up because it’s already eleven thirty and he hasn’t been home in a week and a day and he needs to clean, needs to get rid of the probably spoiled food in his fridge, pick up the apartment and take care of the pizza box sitting on the kitchen counter, take care of the dishes in the dishwasher - any fucking thing to get himself to stop thinking for a few moments. 

He turns on his TV, starts up some music, and does just that.

*

Lunch with his dad goes okay. He doesn't question Stiles too much, just makes sure that he and the rest of the pack are okay and instead they talk about how the station and deputies are doing and make plans to have dinner the week after. 

It’s only when they’re departing to their cars that John turns to Stiles, the concern etched into his face letting Stiles know what he’s about to say and allowing him to brace for impact. 

“I don’t want to say too much, I know you need to deal with this your own way, but - remember. You’re all doing the best you can, what you think is necessary. All of you. You’re pack, and that’s important, but you’re all individuals too, and that’s important too. Sometimes all of you need to compromise.”

It’s actually not what Stiles was expecting, and he can’t help but to stare at his dad for a few moments. His dad can be fucking wise when he wants to be, but Stiles thinks that’s one of the insightful things to ever come from him. It’s - honestly, it’s useful, but it also stirs up a hell of an emotion in Stiles and he has to swallow the lump in his throat back down. 

“Yeah, alright. Thanks, dad.” His voice comes out just a bit rough, and John gives him a small smile in return. 

“Take care of yourself. And I’ll see you soon. Let me know always if there’s anything you want to talk about.” 

“Thanks,” Stiles repeats, swallowing again, “Be safe.”

His dad walks off with a last wave thrown over his shoulder. It takes a moment of Stiles just standing there watching him, but then he goes toward his own car. He’s not sure if Derek can say anything that will help him as much as what his dad just said, but he’s nonetheless ready to go talk to him. At him, probably more accurately, because as good as that lunch and that last conversation with his dad had been, there was so much he still had to get off his chest.

*

“How was your morning?” is the first thing Derek says to Stiles as he walks into this office, having went through the backdoor like Derek had said and having already passed the common room where Erica and Boyd had been on their phones, each looking up with a bored expression and greeting him with a lift of their heads.

Stiles stops just within the doorway, because Derek hadn’t so much as looked up from the paperwork he was doing to know it was him, and it takes him a moment to remember that while their smell isn’t quite that of a were, vampires did have enhanced smell. Not to mention the hearing, and Derek could probably hear the blood rushing through his veins, his heartbeat. 

This pause caused Derek to actually look up, eyebrow raised.

“You okay?”

Stiles nodded, moving once again to sit down in one of the chairs in front of Derek’s desk. 

“Sorry, yeah, just - shitty evening, shitty morning. You - you know.” 

Derek just nods, sighing and looking back down at the paperwork. 

“Give me a moment to finish this and then - I’m all ears.”

Which still feels weird to Stiles for Derek to be saying, and Stiles reminds himself that he doesn’t  _ really  _ know Derek, maybe he’s always been this compassionate, caring person who just had to put up a front because - well, obviously, because people are always trying to kill him and probably take advantage of him and damn, Stiles has only been in the know of the supernatural for eight years and  _ he’s _ already hardened, and he knows that Derek is at least like a century old. Maybe older.

“Okay, bill taken care of,” Derek says after another moment, and sets his pen down as he leans back in his chair, “You want something to drink?” 

“I - yeah. Um, water?” 

Derek nods, getting up and going over to a cabinet on the side of the room, opening to reveal a mini fridge. He reaches in and pulls out two waters, throwing one to Stiles, who catches it easily, and opening the other himself as he closes the cabinet and goes back over to behind the desk, sitting down. He takes a drink, closes the bottle, and sets it down on his desk, looking over to Stiles questioningly, who watches back for just a moment before looking down at his lap.

This all - Stiles didn’t really know what he was going to say before he arrived, didn’t think too hard about it because he figured once he got in front of Derek it would all just kind of spill out, but it’s. Much harder than that. He hasn’t let himself go like that in - ever, he doesn’t think, has always been the one looking out for his pack and been the one making the hard decisions when Scott didn’t want to; he knew he was important to the pack, the second, but that felt like such a shitty, shitty position sometimes, and probably lent itself to the fact that he didn’t feel comfortable just talking about it. 

And when the silence stretches on Derek sighs again, leans forward the puts his elbows on the desk, looking carefully at Stiles. 

“I’m not going to judge you for anything you say. And if you decide you don’t want to say anything, you can just hang out here. I know sometimes it’s better to just be around someone, and maybe you don’t want to be around your pack right now.”

“That’s  _ it _ ,” Stiles bursts out. Derek leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and watching Stiles, who closes his own water bottle and puts it on the desk in front of him because he knows he’s about to rant and he cannot keep his hands still when he rants. 

“It’s - fuck, like god damn. This is my  _ pack _ , we’re as close as family, closer than a lot of families, actually. But shit like this - I can’t talk to them about this. I can’t talk to them about how I think we’re all amoral fucks who have no right to be ending the lives of some of the people we have, I can’t tell them how hypocritical we are. If we included ourselves in any of this we would all be dead too because we would have no choice but to kill ourselves. We’ve all done stupid, irresponsible shit - Scott - fuck, like Scott has almost killed at least seven people, Malia actually has killed people. Allison almost killed all of  _ us _ a few years back, and I know I’ve done a hell of a lot of questionable shit. The only one of us who might get off is Kira. The rest of us - we’re no better than those teenagers. We’re  _ worse  _ than those teenagers, and I.” 

He stops, feeling the tears in his eyes and he will  _ not fucking cry _ , he won’t, not in front of Derek and not right now and not about this, not anymore. He’s done with that. He takes a deep breath, leaning forward so his elbows are on his knees and staring down at his hands and thinks as he speaks next. 

“I don’t know whether I can face them, knowing - or - or thinking that there’s nothing more that we deserve than to die.”

There’s silence for near a full minute, as Stiles sniffs once or twice and does his best to keep his tears behind his eyes, twirling his fingers as his vision blurs inside and out.

“How long have you felt like this?” Derek eventually asks, and it’s a question that catches Stiles so off guard that he looks up, eyebrows drawn together, to stare at Derek. He meets his eyes, seeing just the slightest flash of that iciness in the green. 

“Since we graduated college and moved back here to be hunters full-time, I guess. Since...there was this mission, about three months after we had all settled back here, where…” Stiles pauses, because this is something he hasn’t told anyone else before, something only about half of the pack knew because they all refused to talk about it, even to each other. He swallows, blinks and looks back down at the floor.

“There was this kid. He was...erratic. Killing people, left and right, terrorizing a town over near Las Vegas. He was, what, probably about thirteen or so. A - we learned he was a changeling. And...the thing was he could control his powers, it wasn’t like, not even like these teenagers where they had lost control of themselves, he was well aware of what he was doing and did not give any shits. He...fuck, he was evil incarnate. The worst I think we have ever faced but this guy there, he went to school with Kira, had an in with the supernatural world though he was all human, called us up.”

Stiles has to stop again, take another deep breath and he squeezes his eyes shut, the kid’s face flashing before his eyes, alive, dead, fuck - 

“Scott and Kira and Lydia and I were the only ones who were able to make it out there, everyone else had things going on or were in a different country at the moment, and we went and...tried to talk to him. We were...we were all a bit more naive at that point. We knew about shit, had dealt with way too much shit for being as young as we were, but everything seemed tame at that point. We tried to talk to him, tried to reason with him, because who’s to say that nobody had understood him to that point? He was supernatural in a town that had little to no supernatural activity, maybe just didn’t have anybody to talk to. But he, uh.” 

Stiles takes a moment, shrugs off his jacket so he can show Derek his right forearm, where a very distinct scar remains. He traces it with his left hand, staring at the white lines and bumpy skin in the shape of a bite. 

“He got Scott first, ripped out a good portion of his throat and it’s only by pure fucking chance that we were able to keep him alive long enough for his, uh, healing abilities to kick in. I, yeah. Had to stab him through the fucking heart when he turned on me. Got me a bit, but. Lydia set him on fire pretty quickly after that. And he died, right there in his own fucking family’s living room, his parents bodies upstairs because he killed them too. We killed him. A fucking  _ child _ .”

“You guys didn’t have a choice, though. He was killing people. Tried to kill you. That was technically self-defense, you saved an entire town of people, probably more,” Derek tells him softly, and Stiles stops looking down at that scar, looks up again. 

“Yeah,” he replies, sucking in another deep breath, “Yeah. But. That was, uh, the first time I really realized how fucked up we were, how fucked up our job was. We were committed to this, by then, the hunting gig. Nearly lost members of our pack too often. We already protected Beacon Hills and knew so much and had access to unimaginable books on how to deal with supernatural creatures, we couldn’t very well leave other places defenseless, but. We killed a kid, regardless. We killed a child. And, that’s when I realized that even though he was terrible, so fucking evil, we weren’t too much better. Even then. And, yeah, it gets worse after every fucking mission because so fucking many of them just...they didn’t mean anything by what they did, what they do. So much of it is just, accidental. Or just part of being a supernatural being.”

There’s another stretch of silence as Stiles finishes up, and he breaks eye contact with Derek again, grabbing his water and taking a couple more drinks, trying to get rid of the stupid knot in his throat, delay the headache he can feel coming on. When Derek speaks, it takes Stiles by surprise yet again because he can hear, can  _ feel _ , the emotion behind the tone. So similar to what he’s feeling. He takes another drink of water and looks to the vampire again. 

“Me and my sister were turned at the same time. Along with about five others, by this brood of...thirty two? I never counted us all. We’re part of this brood of somewhere around forty, huge group, freshly turned and - well, how we were turned is a different story for a different time, but it was tragic. In every sense of the word.” 

It’s the most Stiles has heard Derek say at one time, and he raises an eyebrow as Derek continues because even though he may  _ not  _ know Derek very well, he doesn't feel like this is something that Derek does very often - tell stories, that is. Talk about his past. 

“We - all seven of us who were freshly turned, and even the other thirty - we all killed quite a few people those first few weeks. This brood didn’t really give a shit about human lives, they definitely lived with the motto that they were an advanced race, the next evolution.  I drained more than my share of humans those first few weeks. We got better about it after a few months, because there is an attraction that comes with forty vampires draining bodies daily, and even back then there were hunters.

“Eventually, uh, we meet this group of humans - a family,” Derek continues, sighing deeply, “Maybe twenty total, they’re living by themselves in a tiny village in the woods. But they know about us, about the supernatural world and I think a couple of them were even slightly adept at magic. And they uh, they helped us. A lot of us, like I said, some of them just didn’t care for humans at all. But they helped a lot of us learn how to drink without draining, learn how to go weeks without feeding. And.” 

Derek seems to pick his next words more carefully, licking his lips.

“I fell in love with one of them, one of the leaders of this family. She was young, but she was powerful in all ways, a strong individual who helped me so much over the course of the time we knew each other. I drank from her exclusively, and...wow. Thought we must be made for each other, because I’d had a lot of blood by then but her blood was...exceptional. The best until - ”

Derek stops, makes a face and gestures vaguely toward Stiles, which has him raising that eyebrow even more and maybe he has a small smirk on his face but how else is he supposed to feel but proud that his blood tastes good to a vampire?

“I thought we were it for each other, then. I was in love with her and she...told me she was in love with me. And it was good those weeks. The brood learned how to live with these humans, we were talking about settling down there, building homes and stop being nomads and just live and then. One night, there were...just screams. Absolute screams and bloodshed and there was fire and next thing I know she was...standing over me with a stake.”

Stiles feels the smirk fall of his face, his eyebrow going down and expression settling into shock. What the  _ hell _ .

“Turns out the family was hunters. The entirety of them. They were outnumbered, so they tried a different tactic with our brood instead of just outright killing us like they usually did. Got us to trust them, then in the middle of the night snuck up on us and started killing us. With stakes and fire and we only defended ourselves but...I was the only one who got out alive. The only one on either side, when morning came I realized all of them were dead. Everyone. I...I had no choice but to cut the head off this woman who I...I trusted her with my life and she took advantage of that. I still don’t know if she had a soft spot for me or not, if that’s the only reason that I actually got out alive. If she hesitated a moment and allowed me to swoop in for the kill before she could, but.”

Derek clears his throat, and Stiles thinks that if Derek were still human he’d be crying by this point, if maybe being a vampire stopped him from fully expressing his emotions in human-like ways. But  _ he  _ feels that shit, can imagine the absolute heartbreak Derek must have felt after that. Not only being forced to kill someone he thought he could trust with his heart, but also to lose everyone - to lose his  _ sister _ that way, his entire brood, everyone in his life in one stroke.

“Damn,” is what he eventually says in reply because what else does one say in that situation?

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, “And I understand what you’re saying here, because I felt the exact same way after that. Why the hell did I deserve to live through that? I’d killed multiple humans and sure, I was just doing what I thought I had to do to live at that point because nobody taught me that I could go without feeding, that I could drink without draining, but I still killed so many people. These hunters...sure, maybe they weren’t innocent, but a lot of what they had done they surely thought they were doing for the good of society, to stop people from dying. Why did  _ I  _ deserve to live through that when people who surely had killed fewer people than me died? I wasn’t any better than them. I was worse than them and I was -  _ am  _ \- a monster, for god’s sake.” 

“You’re not,” Stiles quickly says because he fully believes it, in his core, because no  _ monster  _ would ever be able to display the pure sadness that Derek is, “You’re not a monster. You didn’t kill me when you had the chance to, didn’t just take out our pack and claim Beacon Hills as your own though you’re more than capable of it, you take care of your brood and anyone can tell how much you care about them. You’re not a monster.”

Derek actually cocks his head to the side at that, like it was far from what he was expecting. 

“You know the only other people who have ever told me I’m not a monster are other vampires, too scared to let go of their own humanity. Most humans...all hunters...they don’t understand it.”

“Well I’m not really a human, am I?” Stiles counters, and they stare at each other for a few moments. There’s - Stiles respects Derek, he realizes as he watches green eyes flash white again. 

“I get that maybe you don’t want to see your pack right now. Maybe you look at them and all you can see is people you aren’t sure deserve to be alive, maybe you look at them and all you can see is a reflection of how you feel about yourself, and I get that. Is what I’m saying. I get feeling like you don’t deserve what you’ve gotten out of this life, like you deserve less or. Whatever. But wallowing in yourself isn’t going to make you feel better, avoiding them isn’t going to. They’re your pack, regardless of anything else, and they know more about you than anyone else in the world, and sure, being around them might suck for a little while. But in the long run they...are the best you’ve got.”

“Dude,” Stiles replies, staring at Derek with some sort of wonderment in his expression because  _ damn _ . If the people closest to him besides the pack - and it startles him, yes, that he considers Derek in those people closest to him outside the pack, but then again who else has ever had his blood in their mouths, who else has ever helped him to feel his spark in such an intense way, who else has shared such a dark part of their past with him so soon after meeting him? - are telling him that he needs to be around his pack in the end, he can’t really argue with them. 

“Okay,” he agrees, “Okay. They, uh, yeah, they at least deserve me to actually say this to their faces, don’t they?” 

Derek just nods, and Stiles knows that that’s it, that’s all they have to say to each other right now. There’s...well, Stiles can feel the way he’s thought of Derek changing, right there in that room, with that story, over the past twelve hours, since Derek showed up out of the blue to  _ take care of  _ him. He doesn’t know how Derek views him, but he definitely respects Derek more, trusts him more now. 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll see you in a week, then,” Stiles says, finishing off his water and standing, glancing around the room for a trash can. 

“Hey.” Stiles glances over at the word, the inflection making it clear that Derek was waiting to get his attention. His eyes search Stiles’ for a moment before he speaks. 

“If you need to wait longer than that, I can deal. Just let me know. You’ve been through a lot. Take your time. Heal.”

Stiles - well, he actually snorts at that, shaking his head and maybe rolling his eyes - just a little. 

“I’m fine - no,” he holds up a hand to stop Derek from protesting, because okay, no, he’s no, “No, you’re right, I’m not, but I  _ will  _ be. I want you to be okay, and I will be by then. So...I’ll text you, okay? And thanks, for today. For listening. And, uh.” 

Stiles stops because he’s not sure how to approach that topic - Derek’s past. Obviously, Derek shared it with him, but it still seems like something Derek doesn’t talk about much, and something he’d rather not, which Stiles understands. He doesn’t like talking about shit like that either. 

“Anytime,” Derek says, “And I mean that. Like I said, I’m almost always here or at the house. Just text me a heads up and I’ll be here for you.” 

Stiles nods slowly, looking over Derek’s face. The man just meets his eyes, and Stiles - well, he never expected this genuineness from a vampire, much less from the Derek that he first met. 

“Thanks,” he repeats, and Derek smiles - actual smile, again, and  _ wow _ \- and gets up, taking the water bottle from Stiles and gesturing toward the door. 

“Now go. Be with your pack.”

Stiles nods again, offering a small smile back before turning toward the door, walking out in the hallway, feeling Derek’s eyes on him the entire way.

He pulls his phone out as soon as he’s out of the building, opening the pack’s messages. 

**Stiles** _be there with tomato salad_

He presses send.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me at [asocialfoxpaw](http://asocialfoxpaw.tumblr.com)


	5. intermission: the world around us is burning but we're so cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t know too much about Stiles, just that his blood tastes too good for the front that he puts up, that when he lets his guard down there’s nothing more innocent that his face. Derek doesn’t believe that Stiles is as bad as he thinks Stiles thinks Stiles is. Or maybe Stiles doesn’t think so shitty of himself, maybe he’s doing okay and Derek’s here projecting his own insecurities on him. But he doubts that that’s the case, with Stiles’ eyes as hard as his exterior. He’d seemed honest to god more annoyed than scared when Derek had first taken his blood. Frustrated that he was bested again, or maybe plain exhausted. Whatever it was, his face had displayed it all. Ready to be done, but not ready to give up yet.
> 
> Derek is not naive, but he’s going to try to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay y'all I'm a bit uncertain about this chapter but here it is and I'm just gonna go with it.
> 
> this work is going to be in Stiles' POV, but I've decided to do intermissions here and there with other characters. the first is Derek, telling the last chapter from his POV. 
> 
> title from "Fairly Local" by Twenty One Pilots

Derek scrunches his eyebrows as his phone as it rings, number on the screen unknown. He and the brood have just gotten home from the club, Isaac rushing off immediately to meet his girlfriend/familiar. The night had been busy, as Thursday’s always were - half off all drinks - and he, Erica, and Boyd are sitting in the living room, watching some show that Erica has gotten really into.

He doesn’t recognize the number, but he does recognize the area code, from the Beacon area, and after a couple more rings he picks up, making his way to the kitchen as to not bother Erica and Boyd. They both look up, watch him leave anyway.

“Hello?” he says, and there’s a pause on the other end before a voice, sounding very tired, answers.

“Hey. Derek?”

Derek feels like he recognizes the voice, but he can’t place it.

“This is him.”

There’s another pause, a shuffle.

“Hey. This is Scott. Um, McCall.”

Right. Alpha of Stiles’ pack - the McCall pack, Derek corrects himself. Because Stiles - no.

“Right. What’s up? Are you guys back?”

Even as he asks he’s reaching out, settling his breathing so he can feel the magic of the territory. There they all, scattered around the city, faint spots of magic of the pack, all back at their own places.

“Yeah, uh. Yeah. Got back about ten minutes ago. Um, Stiles was in a pretty shitty place when he dropped us off so I wasn’t sure he’d remember to let you know.”

This time Derek takes a moment, lets what Scott is saying sink in. Stiles doesn’t seem like the type to often forget things, so he figures that he must have been in a hell of a shitty place. He swallows, thinking.

“What happened?”

Scott sighs, deeply, exhausted.

“It. Well, it was pretty bad. The skinwalkers - they attacked us. They were being controlled by a witch, and after we’d, uh, taken care of her, we thought maybe. Letting them go would be okay? Like, they’re just animals. Mostly wolves, dogs. But they uh. Attacked us. Stiles had to take out three of them himself. It fucked us all up, but definitely him. He’s been in a weird mood the entire drive back.”

Three of them himself? Derek wonders how many there had been all together.

“Thanks for letting me know.” It’s short, blunt, but Derek doesn’t have anything else to say to Scott. He’s a bit angry at him, he thinks, pulling at his emotions, not quite sure what he’s feeling. But Scott is a werewolf, the alpha, the head of the pack; everyone listens to him, follows his instructions. He should have been there, protecting Stiles. Derek knows that Stiles doesn’t need anyone to protect him, he’s a bad ass in his own right and a hunter, magic. But he’s still one of the most vulnerable parts of the pack; human, regardless of whatever else he was. Still breakable. No fast healing, no extra senses.

“Yeah. Uh…” Scott starts to say something else, then decides against it. He sighs.

“Yeah. We’ll see you later.”

“Bye,” Derek replies. His mind is going a mile a minute and after hanging up, he shoves his phone in his back pocket, going back out into the living room.

“Everything okay boss?” Erica asks, and Derek spares a glance for her and Boyd, who are both looking at him with some small concern. He nods even as he grabs his jacket from the back of his chair and shoves it on.

“I’ve got to go check something out. Be back by morning,” he tells them. He sees Erica and Boyd look at each other as he walks toward the front door, but neither of them say anything. They know that if it was a real threat at all, he wouldn’t go out without them, or at least without saying something more specific to them. He grabs his keys from the side table and heads out with a wave at them.

It might be three a.m., but Derek wants - needs - to make sure Stiles is okay. It's not, no matter how Isaac looks at him every time he mentions Stiles, about how his blood tastes, how pure it is. How the act of drinking blood is akin to a good drink of water after a lengthy thirst, but it still gets boring, but how Stiles blood isn't boring. How drinking the same thing, regardless of differences in taste that range depending on diet, exercise, race, gender, blood type, is still drinking the same thing over and over, and it gets old.

Stiles’ blood is anything but old.

But that’s not what this is, anyway. Derek isn’t naive anymore - not that he ever had been, but especially not after he’d lost so much, lost his entire brood, the woman he thought he’d spend the rest of his days with, his last remaining family member, all in one swoop. This, this intense worry about Stiles, has a lot more to do with what Derek has seen in the man those first few days. Sure, to a certain degree it’s in all the pack - that rough exterior, that hardness, the type that only develops when too many shitty things in a row happen to you.

But in Stiles, it’s more than that. Derek can see it because he’s felt it - still feels it, sometimes - himself. Some weird mix of guilt, self-hatred, depression. Throw in some general doubt about your entire life, everything you do. A void in the general area of the chest, sucking away at everything you do, constantly weighed down by that.

Derek isn’t naive, at all. The supernatural world, hidden well from most humans, has it’s highs. There’s nothing like the feeling of the intensity of good magic; the healing of weres is something to behold; even the fact that he’s lived so long, through so much incredible history, is amazing. But the lows outweigh the highs almost all the time. For some more than others.

He doesn’t know too much about Stiles, just that his blood tastes too good for the front that he puts up, that when he lets his guard down there’s nothing more innocent that his face. Derek doesn’t believe that Stiles is as bad as he thinks Stiles thinks Stiles is. Or maybe Stiles doesn’t think so shitty of himself, maybe he’s doing okay and Derek’s here projecting his own insecurities on him. But he doubts that that’s the case, with Stiles’ eyes as hard as his exterior. He’d seemed honest to god more annoyed than scared when Derek had first taken his blood. Frustrated that he was bested again, or maybe plain exhausted. Whatever it was, his face had displayed it all. Ready to be done, but not ready to give up yet.

Derek is not naive, but he’s going to try to save him. Let Stiles know he’s not alone, he’s not the only one who’s ever felt like this. He’s going to do his best to make Stiles feel better. Fuck, he feels weird even admitting it to himself because he hasn’t cared this much about anyone but his brood in hundreds of years. Sure, he does his best to save humans, to keep the supernatural world a secret, but he’s never particularly cared about their humanity, about their souls or lives. And beyond that, the pack are hunters. They’re not hunters who don’t have a code, don’t care who you are, if-you’re-supernatural-you’re-dead sort of hunters, but they’re still hunters. And Derek’s been around too many hunters to trust them, but Stiles. Derek cares about Stiles, to a certain degree trusts and respects him.

And no, he’s not sure why.

He’s trying not to be naive, not to think anymore that just because someone’s blood is perfect means they’re fucking soulmates or something - he’s beyond that, no matter the fact that so many supernatural creatures believe that soulmates exist. Maybe Boyd and Erica are made for each other, but that has more to do with all they’ve been through together and a basic love connection than some pre-destined bullshit.

He wonders how much of these feelings have to do with that, though. Some subconscious idiotic hope he has.

He growls at himself, sub-vocal, as he swings into the parking lot at Stiles’ apartment complex.  He parks the car, takes out the keys, and realizes that Stiles never gave him this address; Stiles will probably freak out, at least. But - and yeah, he’ll be honest here - he and the brood had stalked the pack, figured out where they all lived, to keep a better eye on them. Still to keep an eye on them; they might be allies, but there’s only so much trust a couple of weeks can build.

The door - apartment 5, fifth town home in the row of twenty - is to the left of where Derek’s parked, and he takes a deep breath, getting out of his car and locking the door behind him. He pulls his phone out, texting a _Thanks_. to Scott before looking over, around, seeing the Jeep, distinctly Stiles’, that’s three spots over from his own car. Even if he - he has to see if Stiles is okay, if there’s anything he can do. Even if Stiles turns him away, does freak out, yells at him. He needs to see.

He walks down the sidewalk to bright red door emblazoned with the gold-coloured number 5, faded and chipping from age. There’s a light on in the room just inside the door, and he wonders if Stiles had only minutes before arrived home. He sighs, staring at the door again - looking too cheery in the faint glow of the streetlight, with the starless, overcast sky above. Beacon Hills is as quiet as it usually is, beyond the light thump Derek hears come from the door in front of him.

He walks up with purpose after that, sure he knows exactly what made that sound - Stiles’ head against the door. He’d either a) fallen asleep at the door as soon as he’d walked in, which was fair because they’d been gone a week, a week of hunting, were all no doubt super fucking exhausted, or b) regretting every life decision that had ever led to this moment, ashamed and desperate and Derek needs to make sure he’s okay. At least, okay. He can’t make him better, can’t make his demons go away as much as he’d like to, but he can make sure that, at least for tonight, Stiles knows he has someone beyond the pack to help him out.

He knocks.

There’s a momentary pause, what Derek interprets as hesitation which makes sense, because of course Stiles doesn’t expect anyone to be knocking on his door at three fucking a.m. Then there’s a shuffling, another pause, and the door slowly opening. Stiles is there, looking worse than Derek has ever seen him; tired as fuck, looking much older than mid-twenties. Derek has rarely seen anyone look as awful as this, and that’s.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Stiles asks, squinting suspiciously at him. Derek can almost see the wheels whirring in Stiles’ head - how had Derek known they were back, wait, how did Derek know where he even fucking lived? Stiles' eyes widen , then he cocks his head, waits.

“Scott texted me,” Derek tells him. Stiles studies his face for a moment after this, eyebrows raised.

“And?” he eventually asks. Derek shrugs, trying to work around what exactly he’d say. It would be beyond surprising for Stiles to accept that he’s concerned, because he’s shown nothing even near concern for him thus far. And it’s not like - Derek is concerned, for many reasons, and cares, but he knows - yes, Isaac and Erica and sometimes even stoic, quiet Boyd, have told him - that he puts a wall up. No doubt from hundreds of years of never being able to trust anyone outside his brood. Even them, to a point; it’s not exactly unusual for broods to overthrow their leaders, kill them, so yes, he puts up a fucking facade.

“He said you were pretty out of it,” Derek offers, “Might forget to let me know you guys were back. I could sense you all were back, but I just...wanted to make sure you were okay.”

One of Stiles’ eyebrows goes up near his hairline at that, and he moves back half a centimeter as if he’s taken aback.

“Can I come in?” Derek asks after another few moments of Stiles staring at him, bewildered. This, of course, just makes Stiles stare at him a while longer, squinting again and searching Derek’s face.

“Do I have to invite you in?” Is what Stiles asks, and it has Derek rolling his eyes even as he feels his nostrils flare in amusement, lips quirking up at the corners just a bit.

“No, this isn’t some fucking Grimm brother’s fairy tale,” he replies. Stiles cocks his head to the side again.

“I don’t think the Grimm brothers ever wrote a fairy tale about vampires, actually,” he points out, and Derek rolls his eyes again. Okay, maybe he didn’t have any reason to be worried about Stiles, he seems as much of an asshole and sarcastic as he ever has. Still, he has to offer his help, at least, let Stiles know he and his brood were there if they needed anything.

“It’s a nice thing to do, ask before you barge into other people’s residences.”

Stiles nods, pauses, then shrugs, opening the door all the way and moving out the way. Derek takes that as an invitation, walks in. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s a normal apartment; the door opens to a very small tiled space and a wall directly in front with hooks, some of which contain coats and one a knife and a machete, the only thing he immediately sees which screams _HUNTER_. There’s a small table with a bowl which has two or three sets of keys in it under the hooks, then off to the right side is the living room, furnished nicely if sparsely, with two couches and two armchairs, a coffee table, a TV stand with a nice-sized TV on it, then a set of stairs on the far wall.

Stiles shuts the door behind him forcefully, causing Derek to turn around, watch as Stiles locks it, then deadbolts, then chain locks, which has him raising his eyebrows because Stiles is a _hunter_. Stiles spots the raised eyebrows, scoffs.

“Beacon Hills, dude, and I’m a fucking spark; like god damn catnip to supernatural creatures. They always come after me, even though Scott’s a true alpha and all that shit, and they should be going after him.”

Derek feels his eyebrows go down, knit together, almost against his will as Stiles says this. He sounds beyond frustrated, and exhausted, like he’s all out done and _that’s_ what Derek’s worried about. There’s a momentary silence before Derek breaks it, because if Stiles wants him out, he’s out, but needs to get what he’s about to say out first.

“I - just wanted to make sure you were alright. If there’s - with all of you, if there’s anything me or the brood can do, let me know.”

He stops, isn’t sure what to say next, isn’t sure how to proceed anymore. Stiles continues staring at him, not helping out in the slightest, and Derek sighs again.

“I know you,” Derek starts, then stops. He doesn’t know how to say what he wants without sounding like an asshole making it all about him.

“I read up some more on skinwalkers while you were gone, and asked Scott when he called what happened. He told me, said it fucked you all up, but you especially, that you took out three of them by yourself. What I’m trying to say is - I get it, I really do.”

Stiles doesn’t look like he believes Derek at all, eyebrow raised and sucking in his cheeks. 

“You’ve had to kill someone who’s essentially innocent before?” Stiles spits out, and it’s harsh, but Derek’s ready for it. He’s been there. He takes a deep breath, shrugging.

“Haven’t we all?”

That again seems to throw Stiles off, and he drops his eyebrow and stares intently at Derek’s face, as if he’s searching it for some sort of deception.

“I just,” Derek starts again, but in his glance down realizes - oh, Stiles is covered in what looks like blood, they must have booked it back home after taking out the skinwalkers.

“Why don’t you go take a shower,” he tells Stiles instead of what he was going to say, “I’ll make you - some tea, or hot cocoa, or whatever hot drink you want. And after that, if you want to talk about it, we can.”

There’s another few moments of silence as Stiles takes this in, and Derek can see his mind whirring, eyes searching Derek’s face again before he meets his eyes, his own face relaxing.

“Kitchen’s that way,” Stiles gestures behind Derek, and he turns to see a small, nice kitchen, “Electric kettle, tea bags and mugs are in the far left upper corner. I’ll, uh, I’ll only be a short while.”

“Take your time. Nothing like a hot shower when you’re feeling like shit,” Derek replies, turning back to look at Stiles and give him what he hopes is a friendly expression as he starts to take off his jacket. Stiles stares for another couple of seconds before turning himself, walking toward the stairs. As soon as he’s out of sight, Derek sighs again and goes to the kitchen, finding the electric kettle already plugged in and so he starts it up as he goes in search of those tea bags and mugs.

Stiles is…he looks absolutely broken. And maybe Derek doesn’t know him as well as he’d like to - no, no, maybe Derek doesn’t know him well, full stop there - but he knows what its like to want to die. He’s felt it too many times in his life.

Even after all those times, though, he’s never learned how to combat those feelings. He doesn’t know how to make Stiles feel better, doesn’t know if his presence is actually helpful or a hindrance. He doesn’t know what to say to start to help Stiles heal, but he thinks - maybe this will be something. Tea, talking if stiles wants it. Having someone there who actually understands what it’s all like.

Derek isn’t sure, but this might be a good start.

*

Stiles does take a while after all; Derek doesn’t pour the hot water until he hears the water shut off to make sure the tea will be nice and hot. It’s nearing four when Stiles pads down the stairs, and Derek is siting at the bar, scrolling through Twitter when he makes it to the kitchen. Derek closes his phone and looks up as Stiles enters, giving him another hint of a smile and pushing the mug he’s not drinking from to the other side of the bar toward Stiles.

“Lemon chamomile,” he offers, “Comforting. Good for settling emotions and stomachs.”

Stiles quirks an eyebrow at him again, surprised, and Derek suppresses his eye roll - like he wouldn’t know teas, honestly, he’s four hundred and fifty years old, he knows a hell of a lot about a hell of a lot.

“Herbal teas have been used for centuries for various afflictions. I’ve been around too many humans who use them not to have done some research myself,” he says instead, and Stiles just nods before picking up the mug and gesturing toward the living room, walking off. Derek gets up, grabbing his own tea and following Stiles, who immediately curls up on one end of the couch. Derek chooses the armchair closest to him, and then they sit there like that for a minute, silence not exactly awkward but far from a comfortable one. Eventually, Derek speaks up, saying what he’s been thinking about the entire time Stiles was showering.

“If you don’t want to talk about it tonight - this morning - I’m, uh, free most days too. Either at home or at the club. If you ever want to talk, about this or anything else. I know,” Derek stops for a moment, looking directly at Stiles, and he looks right back, eyes wide and so vulnerable Derek’s heart aches, “I know it can be hard to talk to those who you’re closest to. Sometimes it’s too much to say, sometimes it involves them.”

Derek knows this too well; Isaac knows the entire story, the absolute destruction Kate and her fucked up family did to him because he turned Isaac days after it all happened, but Erica and Boyd - they don’t know that part of him. They know him for exactly what he wants them to know him for, and they don’t even know the entire story. Not only because it’s hard to talk about, but also because he doesn’t want them to know about that part of him. He wants them to know him as the leader he’d become later.

“I just,” Stiles starts, breaking into Derek's thoughts. But then Stiles stops, shaking his head and swallowing. It’s the first thing he’s said since coming down the stairs, and Derek can hear the roughness in his voice, emotions that he’s probably trying to repress coming to the surface. Eventually he looks back up at Derek, face blank.

“Why do you guys even have the club? Surely you don’t need the income.”

Derek shrugs, taking a drink of his tea as he thinks about the answer.

“We don’t. We’ve all been around too long, too many years, and have always pooled our money, so we have more than enough to last for at least the next three hundred years. Helps when you don’t have to pay for food very often. But it gives us something to do. Take care of. When you don’t sleep, don’t eat, it leaves lots of extra time.”

Stiles seems genuinely interested in what Derek’s saying, another surprise because he’s pretty sure Stiles asked to get out of talking about himself, or as a distraction from his own thoughts. Even if that is all this is, Derek’s glad he can at least be that.

“Why don’t you just travel? Like, with that much money, with that much time, you could see so much.”

Stiles sounds intensely wistful as he says this, and it makes Derek pause. If he - did he want to travel? Derek wonders why he doesn’t. Is his sense of responsibility for this town, is his loyalty to this pack that much? Surely, if he can afford an apartment as nice as the one they’re currently siting in, he can afford to go wherever he wants to.

Derek shrugs.

“We did, we have, but it’s not easy to travel, not when you’re vampires. There’s hunters to look out for, other vampires, other supernatural creatures. Wolves, as I’m sure you know, don’t like us very much. There’s too many wolves in North America, too many other vampires in Europe. Too many hunters everywhere. Too hard to find food sources when you’re constantly on the move; familiars are easier to deal with than one nighters.”

Stiles cocks his head to the side, considering this as he sets his mug down on the coffee table. They sit there until Stiles grabs the TV remote, gesturing it toward Derek.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

Derek shakes his head, putting his own mug on the coffee table. Stiles turns on the television, turning it to what Derek recognizes as the same show Erica’s been into. They watch it, not speaking to each other, for a few minutes before Derek thinks that maybe Stiles wants him to leave, is too polite to kick him out.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks a couple minutes after that thought. Stiles looks to him, eyes wide again.

“Only if you want to. I - I could use this. Um. Y’know.”

And Derek does know. He doesn’t reply, just looks back to the TV, and they continue to watch in silence.

Halfway through the next episode Derek looks back over, sees Stiles fast asleep and there it is. Everyone looks younger when sleeping, he knows, but Stiles looks genuinely different. Happier. Softer. His own facade gone, breath even, not hyper aware of everything that’s happening around him, and absolutely beautiful.

Derek stops staring at him, cursing silently to himself because he will _not_. He gets up, carefully grabs the TV remote from where it’s sitting beside Stiles and shuts off the TV. Grabs the mugs and quietly makes his way out to the kitchen, checking the time. Almost five-thirty, and that pastry shop down the street that everyone raves about opens at six; something he only knows because he’d picked some up for the police department when they’d first arrived in town, trying to establish himself and his brood as a part of the town (and it had worked; he’d never seem so many cops look so happy as when he’d walked in with the box of assorted desserts. It had gotten him on a first name basis with the sheriff and definitely secured him in the good graces of the rest of the department).

He goes up the stairs, locating Stiles’ bedroom, which is particularly organized and well-kept, something that feels unexpected but Derek isn’t quite sure why. He grabs a pillow and a blanket before he can think too much about it and goes back down to the living room, slipping the pillow under Stiles’ head and laying the blanket over him, only wincing once because again, this feels creepy. Granted, Stiles hadn’t freaked out over the fact that Derek knew his home address, but Derek figures that he was too tired and had overlooked it. Before he can dwell too much on that, though, he goes back out to the kitchen, washing the mugs and placing them in the dish rack to the side of the sink. He sees a phone charger plugged into the wall but no phone, and thinking that Stiles will want it in the morning, goes back out to the living room, looking around until he spots it on the side table. He grabs it, plugs it in, and then.

Right. Lou’s.

He grabs his jacket, sneaks back out the front door and goes to his car. It’s still only just after five thirty, but he drives down the street to the patisserie anyway, parking outside and pulling out his phone, jumping from this to that as he waits.

He leaves Stiles again at six thirty, leaving a box of danishes and a note, looking out once more to make sure Stiles is still asleep before he walks out.

*

A lot of hunters will say that supernatural creatures don’t have emotions - a way to de _human_ ize them. Well, maybe not dehumanize, but same difference. But Derek - fuck, he knows he feels emotions. Knows his brood does, and vampires, out of all supernatural creatures, are best at suppressing their emotions, so he has no doubt that other supernatural creatures have feelings too.

And all Derek can really feel right now is concern for Stiles and a small amount of anxiety.

It was around eleven thirty that Stiles had texted him asking if they could talk at one thirty, and now it’s almost that time. Derek might be able to feel emotions, does often, but it’s times like this that he wishes he didn’t. Or at least could shut it off. There is no reason he should be feeling any sort of anxiety over the thought of seeing Stiles, but here he is.

When he’d arrived back home earlier that morning, Boyd and Erica had been in the kitchen drinking coffee (though they may not process caffeine the way humans did, they all did it, out of routine, an attempt to look normal, and because they all liked it. Especially, in Derek’s opinion, because they’d all lived through some really shitty drinks, and had lived through a success at making things taste better over centuries). They’d both raised their eyebrows at him as he’d walked in, curious, but Derek just smiled at them and poured himself some coffee.

They were sitting in the break room now, working on recipe development for new things they might try serving at the bar (cooking had been one of Erica’s favourite things before she’d been turned), but Derek hears snippets every once and a while.

It isn't like they never kept secrets from each other - they do- but they don't very often, so Derek understands where she's coming from. But this - yes, these feelings. They were something he doesn’t want to talk to his brood about. Not because he’s embarrassed by them, but because the brood would be, and should be, worried about them. He’s making himself vulnerable, and making himself vulnerable makes them all vulnerable.

So he’s keeping those feelings to himself, keeping this all to himself.

That’s why he’s feeling anxious; because Stiles is coming there to talk, and there’s no way that Boyd and Erica won’t overhear what they talk about. There’s also no way he’s not going to be vulnerable during their conversation because Stiles makes him that way.

No, he’s going to ignore this. All these feelings. He’s not going to allow himself to feel this, because god damn it he’s not naive. He knows better. Stiles may taste like actual heaven, may be everything - but Derek doesn’t know him. Doesn’t quite trust him, and shouldn't.

 _Yet_ , his mind supplies, and Derek stomps it down, continues filling out paperwork until he hears the back door open, hears Stiles’ heartbeat, fluttering quickly and Derek feels a rush go through his body and then he stomps that down, too.

He senses the exact moment Stiles is at his threshold, doesn’t bother to look up.

“How was your morning?” he asks instead, continuing to write, and it’s only after a few seconds pass without a reply that Derek looks up.

“You okay?” he asks Stiles, who looks mildly surprised, standing inside Derek’s office. After another beat Stiles nods, moving to sit in one of the chairs in front of Derek’s desk.

“Sorry, yeah, just - shitty evening, shitty morning. You - you know.”

Derek nods this time, sighing and continuing the paperwork.

“Give me a moment to finish this and then - I’m all ears.”

He needs a moment, to collect himself and damn but it’s been a while since he’s felt so ashamed of himself. He can feel Stiles’ eyes on him and that should be it, but he also feels other things he can only dampen down so much.

Derek’s not naive, but he knows himself well enough to know that this hope could easily be his downfall. He’s had centuries to learn how to contain his emotions, but there are - and the brood knows this, too - always people who break through that. Boyd  and Erica have each other; Erica had had her family until they had died, no matter that she had hated them with a passion. Isaac had his brother, and now Emilia. It was Kate, for Derek, and Jenny for a little while in the nineteen ten's, and those had both turned out like shit, though Kate had been quite a bit worse.

 _Now_ , it feels like Stiles.

Derek finishes, setting his pen down and leaning back in his chair to look at Stiles, who still looks like shit, though less so than he had that morning.

“Okay, bill taken care of. You want something to drink?”

He’s already standing as he’s asking the question, feeling like some water himself (nutritionally, they didn’t need water, but it did help quench thirst at least for small periods of time, and helped them go longer between feedings).

“I - yeah. Um, water?” Stiles answers, the question obviously throwing him off and Derek wonders how much of what he’s done in the past twelve hours has thrown Stiles off.

He pulls two water bottles out of the mini fridge on the right of his office, tossing one to Stiles and taking a long drag out of his own as he sits back down. He looks at Stiles then, eyebrows raised because Stiles is the one who asked to come over.

The silence stretches on, though, as Stiles’ shoulders drop and his eyebrows knit together, mouth closed tightly. Derek sighs, leaning forward and putting his forearms on the desk.

“I’m not going to judge you for anything you say,” he tells Stiles, “And if you decide you don’t want to say anything, you can just hang out here. I know sometimes it’s better to be around someone, and maybe you don’t want to be around your pack right now.”

The words spur something in Stiles, and he - starts. Derek leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and watching as Stiles talks, hands moving animatedly and expression some mix of angry and sad.

“That’s it. It’s - fuck, like god damn. This is my pack, we’re as close as family, closer than a lot of families, actually. But shit like this - I can’t talk to them about this. I can’t talk to them about how I think we’re all amoral fucks who have no right to be ending the lives of some of the people we have, I can’t them how hypocritical we are. If we included ourselves in any of this we would all be dead too because we would have no choice but to kill ourselves. We’ve all done stupid, irresponsible shit - Scott - fuck, like Scott almost killed seven people, Malia actually has killed people. Allison almost killed all of us a few years back, and I know I’ve done a hell of a lot of questionable shit. The only of us who might get off is Kira. The rest of us - we’re not better than those teenagers. We’re worse than those teenagers, and I.”

Stiles looks torn between about to pull his own hair out and sobbing when he stops. He swallows and takes a deep breath, leaning forward so his elbows are on his knees and stares down at his hands as he continues.

“I don’t know whether I can face them, knowing - or - or thinking that there’s nothing we deserve more than to die.”

Derek lets the silence stretch on, not sure he can speak himself right then, heart hurting like hell not only for Stiles but for himself. Memories flood into his own head and he remembers when he tried to put a bullet through his brain, tried to stab himself, tried to poison himself, knowing that he deserved to die. He watches as Stiles blinks rapidly, swallows again, no doubt shoving tears about to fall down his face back.

“How long have you felt like this?” he asks, and Stiles looks up, surprised. As their eyes meet Derek feels his own flash white, unintentional and fuck, that hasn’t happened in years, decades.

“Since we graduated college and move back here to be hunters full-time, I guess,” Stiles says, “Since…there was this mission, about three months after we all settled back here, where…”

Stiles stops, looks behind Derek for a moment at the wall before looking back down at the floor, swallowing again.

“There was this kid. He was…erratic. Killing people, left and right, terrorizing a town over near Las Vegas. He was, what, probably thirteen or so. A - we learned he was a changeling. And…the thing was he could control his powers, it wasn’t like, not even like these teenagers where they’d lost control of themselves, he was well aware of what he was doing and did not give any shits. He…fuck, he was evil incarnate. The worst I think we have ever faced but this guy there, he went to school with Kira, had an in with the supernatural world though he was all human, called us up.”

Stiles stops again, takes another deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut and it hurts that Derek doesn’t know what to say, how to make him feel like it’s going to be okay. When he speaks again, his voice is rough, near tears.

“Scott and Kira and Lydia and I were the only ones who were able to make it out there, everyone else had things going on or were in a different country at the moment, and we went and…tried to talk to him. We were…we were all a bit more naive at that point. We knew about shit, had dealt with way too much shit for being as young as we were, but everything seemed tame at that point. We tried to talk to him, tried to reason with him, because who’s to say that nobody had understood him to that point? He was supernatural in a town that had little to no supernatural activity, maybe just didn’t have anybody to talk to. But he, uh.”

Stiles strips off his jacket, shows Derek his right forearm, and - fuck, Derek stops himself from physically sucking in a breath because damn, he doesn’t know how he never noticed that before. A very deep scar in the shape of a bite mark mars the skin on the inner part of his arm, and Stiles traces it with his left hand.

“He got Scott first, ripped out a good portion of his throat and it’s only by pure fucking chance that we were able to keep him alive long enough for his, uh, healing abilities to kick in. I, yeah. Had to stab him through the fucking heart when he turned on me. Got me a bit, but. Lydia set him on fire pretty quickly after that. And he died, right there in his own fucking family’s living room, his parents’ bodies upstairs because he killed them, too. We killed him. A fucking child.”

“You guys didn’t have a choice, though,” Derek feels the need to say, even though everyone’s probably already told Stiles this, but he needs to know, “He was killing people. Tried to kill you. That was technically self-defense, you saved an entire town of people, probably more.”

Stiles looks up at him again, meets his eyes.

“Yeah,” he agrees, taking a breath, “Yeah. But. That was, uh, the first time I really realized how fucked up we were, how fucked up our job was. We were committed to this, by then, the hunting gig. Nearly lost members of our pack too often. We already protected Beacon Hills and knew so much and had access to unimaginable books on how to deal with supernatural creatures, we couldn’t very well leave other places defenseless, but. We killed a kid, regardless. And that’s when I realized that even though he was terrible, so fucking evil, we weren’t too much better. Even then. And, yeah, it gets worse after every fucking mission because so fucking many of them…they didn’t mean anything by what they did, what they do. So much of it is just accidental. Or just part of being a supernatural being.”

So much of it _is_ just part of being a supernatural being, Derek thinks to himself. Stiles breaks eye contact, drinking his water, and something clicks in Derek. There isn’t anything he can tell Stiles that will make him feel better about himself or his pack, because their situation is shitty. Stiles’ situation is shitty. Killing things, even when you know how evil they are, is hard. Fucking hurts. But he can make sure Stiles knows that he isn’t alone. He can prove that he knows how Stiles feels, because Stiles had been so suspicious when he’d tried to tell him the previous night - morning - whatever. He takes a breath, staring right at Stiles as he starts, and Stiles meets his eyes again in surprise.

“Me and my sister were turned at the same time. Along with about five others, by this brood of…thirty two? I never counted us all. We’re part of this brood of somewhere around forty, huge group, freshly turned and - well, how we were turned is a different story for a different time, but it was tragic. In ever sense of the word.”

And it had been - Laura had died in the attack by the vampires on their colony; the brood had killed fifty people, and another fifteen hadn’t lived through the bite. Only him, Cora, and five others survived, out of the original near seventy five of them. He doesn't say how much of a bloodbath it had been, and how much it had hurt to see Laura get sucked dry by one of the leaders of the brood. How terrible the bite had been, how awful the transformation, how much he and Cora had despised the brood but had no choice but to stay with them.

“We - all seven of us who were freshly turned, and even the other thirty - we all killed quite a few people those first few weeks. This brood didn’t really give a shit about human lives, they definitely lived with the motto that they were an advanced race, the next evolution. I drained more than my share of humans those first few weeks. We got better about it after a few months, because there is an attraction that comes with forty vampires draining bodies daily, and even back then there were hunters.”

Derek - he’s not sure he wants to continue; Stiles is staring at him with both eyebrows raised, interested and concerned and disgusted but Derek can’t stop - he so rarely talks about his past, especially about this, yet it’s still as fresh in his mind as it ever was, hurts as much as it ever did and he can’t stop himself from continuing, takes a deep breath and looks down at his desk.

“Eventually, uh, we meet this group of humans - a family. Maybe twenty total, they’re living by themselves in this tiny village in the woods. But they know about us, about the supernatural world and I think a couple of them were even slightly adept at magic. And they, uh, helped us. A lot of us, like I said - some of them just didn’t care for humans at all. But they helped a lot of us learn how to drink without draining, learn how to go weeks without feeding. And.”

Derek has to pause for a moment, think about what he’s going to say next because it hurts, so much, and maybe it hurts even more in the wake of everything that’s happening now, again - he stops himself from going down that road, focuses on the past he’s talking about.

“I fell in love with one of them, one of the leaders of this family. She was young, but she was powerful in all ways, a strong individual who helped me so much over the course of the time we knew each other. I drank from her exclusively and…wow. Thought we must have been made for each other, because I’d had a lot of blood by then but her blood was…exceptional. The best until - ”

Derek actually hates himself, but he can’t help but gesture toward Stiles, and fuck, but okay. It’s too late, he’s told Stiles how good his blood tastes, implied that maybe he thinks they're made for each other, and by the hint of a smirk that places itself on Stiles’ face, he picked that up, too. Derek winces, but goes on.

“I thought we were it for each other, then. I was in love with her, and she…told me she was in love with me. And it was good those weeks. The brood learned how to live with these humans, we were talking about settling down there, building homes and stop being nomads and just live and then. One night, there were…just screams. Absolute screams and bloodshed and there was fire and next thing I know she was standing over me with a stake.”

Derek watches the smirk slide of Stiles’ face, watches him go pale and mouth open in shock.

“Turns out the family was hunters. The entirety of them. They were outnumbered, so they tried a different tactic with our brood instead of outright killing us like they usually did. Got us to trust them, and then in the middle of the night snuck up on us and started killing us. With stakes and fire and we only defended ourselves but I was the only who got out alive. The only one on either side, when morning came I realized all of them were dead. Everyone. I - I had no choice but to cut the head off this woman who I…I trusted her with my life and she took advantage of that. I still don’t know if she had a soft spot for me or not, if that’s the only reason that I actually got out alive. If she hesitated a moment and allowed me to swoop in and kill her before she could, but.”

Derek clears his throat, shrugs. He can’t - well, he physically can’t cry, but it wouldn’t matter because he would’ve been cried out about it by that point. After that, he’d gone on a fucking crazy spree - turned Isaac in desperation, which in the end had turned out to be the best thing for Isaac but didn’t mean it was the right thing in the moment. Killed a few more humans because his grief made him even thirstier, he forgot all the hunters had taught him, and Isaac in turn didn’t learn it right away either, had sucked humans dry in his first few months, too. They’d been on the run for ages, never staying in a place for longer than a few hours, hunting animals when humans were few and far between.

“Damn,” Stiles says after a stretch, and Derek lets out a huff.

“Yeah. And I understand what you’re saying here, because I felt the exact same way after that. Why the hell did I deserve to live through that? I’d killed multiple humans and sure, I was just doing what I thought I had to do to live at that point because nobody taught me that I could go without feeding, that I could drink without draining, but I still killed so many people. These hunters…sure, maybe they weren’t innocent, but a lot of what they had done they surely thought they were doing for the good of society, to stop people from dying. Why did I deserve to live through that when people who surely had killed fewer people than me died? I wasn’t any better than them. I was worse than them and I was - am - a monster, for god’s sake.”

“You’re not,” Stiles says immediately and it's harsh, so unexpected that Derek flinches, “You’re not a monster. You didn’t kill me when you had the chance to, didn’t just take out our pack and claim Beacon Hills as your own though you’re more than capable  of it, you take care of your brood and anyone can tell how much you care abut them. You’re not a monster.”

They stare at each other for a moment after he says this, because Derek - he’s not used to that. Especially from hunters. Most humans in general agree that supernatural creature as a whole are monsters, regardless of if they actually kill anyone, or hurt anyone. They’re just - evil, automatically, because they’re not human.

“You know the only other people who have ever told me I’m not a monster are other vampires, too scared to let go of their own humanity. Most humans…all hunters…they don’t understand it.”

“Well I’m not really human, am I?” Stiles counters, and the look on Stiles face that has Derek’s eyes flashing again.

“I get that maybe you don’t want to see your pack right now,” he continues, careful to meet Stiles’ eyes so he knows the truth in what Derek is saying, “Maybe you look at them and all you can see is people you aren’t sure deserve to be alive, maybe you look at them all you can see is a reflection of how you feel about yourself, and I get that. Is what I’m saying. I get feeling like you don’t deserve what you’ve gotten out of this life, like you deserve less or. Whatever. But wallowing in yourself isn’t going to make you feel better, avoiding them isn’t going to. They’re your pack, regardless of anything else, and they know more about you than anyone else in the world, and sure, being around them might suck for a little while. But in the long run they…are the best you’ve got.”

“Dude,” Stiles replies, and his eyes are full of wonderment, amazement, maybe, that Derek actually does get it. Derek’s entire goal, out of this all, was to at least make Stiles feel less alone in his thoughts, in his feelings, and maybe he succeeded, if Stiles’ face is anything to go by.

“Okay,” Stiles eventually agrees, “Okay. They, uh, they at least deserve me to actually say this to their faces, don’t they?”

Derek nods, and it’s like an ending, for now. Stiles finishes off his water and stands, looking around the room.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll see you in a week, then.”

“Hey,” Derek replies, waiting to continue until Stiles looks to him, “If you need to wait longer than that, I can deal. Just let me know. You’ve been through a lot. Take your time, heal.”

Stiles snorts at that, then rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“I’m fine - no,” he holds up his hands when he sees Derek about to protest, because _no, Stiles, you aren’t fine_ , “No, you’re right, I’m not, but I will be. I want you to be okay, and I will be by then. So…I’ll text you, okay? And thanks, for today. For listening. And, uh.”

Stiles looks down at the ground again, eyebrows scrunched together like he doesn’t know how to approach the subject of Derek’s past, which makes sense; even Derek doesn’t know how to approach it most of the time. Today, it had sort of spilled out, in an attempt to make Stiles feel better, less lonely, and he - fuck, he would almost anything at this point to make Stiles feel like that. Derek winces to himself, realization setting in no matter how much he tries to deny it.

“Anytime,” he says instead, “And I mean that. Like I said, I’m almost always here or at the house. Just text me a heads up and I’ll be there for you.”

Stiles nods slowly, looking back up and searching Derek’s face. Derek lets him, just watching his eyes in return, and Stiles startles after a moment, blinking once.

“Thanks,” he repeats, and Derek smiles - an actual smile, which seems to again startle Stiles, and Derek hears his heartbeat pick up.

“Now go. Be with your pack.”

Stiles nods again, offering a small smile of his own before he walks out the door, and Derek watches him go, eyes watching the doorway until he hears the back door close. He’s going back to the stack of bill he’s paying when he senses more than sees Erica at his doorway. He glances up, eyebrows raised in question. Her stern expression throws him off, though, an expression he’s only seen on her a handful of times, usually directed toward other people.

“What?” he asks when she doesn’t say anything. She walks into the room, plopping down in one of the chairs and kicking her feet up on the desk.

“So you and Stiles.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say in response; it wasn’t like he wasn’t expecting this, but not in this way. It doesn’t matter, because after just a moment Erica continues.

“You didn’t even tell Boyd and I about the whole Kate situation until we’d been part of your brood for months, and you tell him within a month of knowing him? And he’s a hunter.”

She’s concerned and maybe also pissed off, Derek realizes, and he sets his pen down again, leaning back in his chair and sighing.

“He’s in a place in his life I’ve only seen a couple of people in. I wanted to make sure he was going to be okay, and sharing that part of myself may have helped.”

Erica doesn’t look like she quite believes him, but she nonetheless puts her feet down, leans forward and squints at him.

“Whatever you want to tell yourself, but Derek. Be careful.”

She leaves before he can say anything in reply, but it’s a few minutes before he picks back up his pen.

“I’m not naive,” he tells himself, but it’s without any conviction at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk y'all I'm a bit worried about this one but I neeeeeded this in Derek's POV so I'mma stick with it
> 
> find me at


	6. I know we're the crooked kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he feels comfortable with Derek. Not as relaxed as he feels around his pack, but as relaxed as he often feels at home alone. Like there’s a very slight chance of an attack, there niggling at the back of his mind, keeping him on edge and ready just in case, but not poised. Not like he was when he first met Derek, certainly, not even like he was the first time he came over to the house. He figures somewhat, it’s got to be that he’s been passed out with Derek twice and he’s never done anything. He’s had the opportunity to drink him dry twice and he hasn’t. He and his brood helped with the lamia, promised to helped them with any future supernatural problems. And Derek’s trusted Stiles with his rather tragic back story, and that’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah it's finally fucking out, months after it was supposed to be. I legitimately hate myself for how hard writing is sometimes. anywho.
> 
> chapter title from "The Crooked Kind" by Radical Face.
> 
> please don't post any of my stuff on goodreads, and please alert me if you're planning to post it on a tumblr rec list. it's common courtesy, thanks.

Honestly, if Stiles is up for being honest with himself, which he is every once in a while, he wants to talk to Derek.

It’s been a week and a half since the pack got back to Beacon Hills, and things are…considerably better. As Derek suggested, hanging out with his pack, his best friends, _did_ help. He felt calmer, even happier, being around them. Stiles knows that’s partly because he’s a spark and the emissary of the pack, has a stronger connection that the magic that holds the pack together than the rest of them, even Scott as the alpha. But he knows that also partly it’s just because they’re his _family_ , would be even if they were normal humans with normal human problems. While he knows their morality isn’t going to get better anytime soon, he hates everyone and himself just a little bit less being around them.

He still wants to talk to Derek, though. It’s not about anything in particular, he really _does_ feel better. He just feels an urge.

 **12:15** _You doing okay?_ He texts Derek. He’s been feeling restless all morning, even taking a double dose of Adderall, which he hasn’t done since college, and drinking two cups of coffee, which usually helps considerably. He has a deadline in two days, what’s supposed to be a two thousand word story for a literary magazine that he’s only just started in on at eighty words, or he could be working on the novel he’s had in the works for two years, or he could be working on that data analysis work he got two days ago that’s due in a week, but he hasn’t been able to focus on any of them and it’s _frustrating_.

 **12:22 Derek** _Fine, until you’re ready. Or if you aren’t I can find someone else for the next few weeks._

Maybe there’s a small pit of jealousy that forms in Stiles’ stomach at that thought, but he’s not going to admit that even to himself. He swallows past the guilt that builds up in his throat at the thought that he might be becoming attached to this _vampire_. He’s not speciest, by any means, but anyone knows that supernatural creatures who aren’t from the same brood/pack/etc don’t get along. And even besides _that_ , Derek still drank from him without consent, which even with his awful back story isn’t _okay_.

 **12:24** _Does tonight work for you?_ he texts instead of thinking about any of the things running through his mind, and he has just barely sent it when he gets a text back: _7:00? Come to the house. I can make dinner for you if you like._

 **12:26** _I thought vampires didn’t eat?_

 **12:26 Derek** _Not normally. It’s not terribly comfortable and doesn’t offer anything nutritionally, but we can. We usually keep the kitchen partially stocked just in case of people who can eat who might come over._

 **12:27 Derek** _Plus we do miss food sometimes and sometimes it’s worth the discomfort to just have some potatoes._

Stiles raises his eyebrows at that, completely abandoning the computer he’s been on since ten trying to write, setting the laptop on the coffee table and leaning back into the couch.

 **12:27** _Potatoes?_

 **12:30 Derek** _Are you judging me? I love potatoes, and it’s one of the few things we still have around that we had before I was turned._

Which just raises _so many more_ new questions. Stiles had never really thought about when Derek was turned, had actually not even really thought about the fact that Derek and his brood are technically immortal, don’t age. He thinks he remembers Derek mention something about maybe a hundred years ago, and _is he really over a hundred years old?_

 **12:32** _Is it rude to ask how old you are?_

There’s a pause before Derek answers, in which Stiles freaks out for a moment wondering if he’d overstepped his bounds. It’s happened before, he’s lost friends before because he’s wanted too much in a short time, let his overactive mouth take off asking things and saying things people aren’t ready for. Only Scott had stuck with him longterm until the pack had assembled during high school, Stiles’ overbearing attitude and constant curiosity too much for anyone else. Stiles thinks that Scott only lasted that long because Scott was actually made of pure persistence.

 **12:37 Derek** _It doesn’t bother me, but it’ll probably freak you out a bit._

Stiles highly doubts this, but since he’s also interested in Derek’s entire transformation story - is it rude to ask vampires how they _became_ vampires? He knows all of the pack’s transformation stories and has never been good friends with any other creatures except a mage in college, who had been magic since birth - he figures he’ll just ask later, if he has the guts.

 **12:39** _Tell me later. See you at 7, if you want to make me food I’m not opposed but be wary that my table manners are fucking abysmal sometimes._

 **12:40** _:)_

Stiles starts at that, physically moving back against the couch and making a face at his phone because _had Derek just sent him an emoji?_ In fact, the more Stiles thinks about it, the more he wonders how the brood even reacts to technology; a lot of older generations are terrible about new advances in technology. Did that have more to do with the degradation of humans’ brains as they get older, if young vampires have no problem adapting to new technology?

He’s actually really curious about a lot of this stuff; most of the information the pack (mostly him and Lydia, the resident researchers of the group) came from either the very small amount that the Argent’s bestiary contains, most of which was incorrect or incomplete, or their own knowledge that they’d gathered over the years. He wonders how willing Derek, maybe even his entire brood, would be to answering all the invasive questions he has.

Frankly, Stiles doesn’t know enough shit about any of their personalities to know how they might react. He doesn’t think Derek would care - he seems to at least be tolerable to Stiles’ presence and comfortable with him, and hasn’t had such a hard time answering his questions thus far, but the rest of the pack. Boyd is pretty indifferent, he’d probably just stare at Stiles in judgement, or might say “no” and leave it at that. Isaac seems have taken an instant liking to Scott, and to a lesser extent Allison, but doesn’t seem to care much about Stiles. And while Erica and Lydia had had a very short conversation after they’d taken out the lamia and were in hesitant admiration of each other, she straight out doesn’t seem to like Stiles, had even glared at Stiles that day at the club after he’d talked to Derek.

But at least Derek seems to open himself up to Stiles as much as Stiles opens himself to Derek. He wonders if their mutual comfort with each other has something to do with the blood drinking, or something else. Maybe he should start writing these questions down.

Even as his mind races with all of these things, Stiles also, surprisingly, feels more calm than he has all morning. Well aware of the deadlines that are looming over his head, he puts his phone on silent and throws it to the other end of the couch, picking up his laptop and flexing his fingers, ready to begin writing again.

 

*

 

When Stiles pulls up to the mansion it’s only 6:45, but he can’t _help_ it. Around five he’d gotten really restless again, and after scouring both his bathroom and his kitchen, taking care of the clean laundry that’s been sitting at the bottom of his closet since he did laundry three days ago, and showering, there wasn’t much left to do except go early. He doesn’t know exactly why he feels weird about showing up early - he’s never been shy about his anxiety-induced tendencies, one of which was to show up early to places regularly - but he stills feels weird about it, so he ends up sitting in his car for a minute, biting his lip, before he remembers that vampires have enhanced hearing as well and surely Derek heard him pulling up, especially since the Jeep, for all her glory, is loud as fuck.

“Come in!” Derek yells when Stiles finally works up the courage to get out of the car, go up to the door, and knock. Stiles blinks at the door for a moment - what kind of a security is it to just allow whoever knocks into your house? - but opens the door slowly, walking in.

“I’m in the kitchen,” Derek says once the door is shut behind Stiles, who thinks for a moment before remembering where the kitchen is, walking through the entryway to the living room, which opens up to the kitchen. There Derek is, stirring something in a pot on the stove. There’s already food on the island - a caprese salad and (homemade?) bread - and two plates.

“Just us tonight?” Stiles asks, sliding out of his jacket. Derek turns from the stove, small smile on his face and _wow_ , Stiles realizes how weirdly domestic this seems.

“The other three are at the club. Your jacket and weapons can go in the living room.”

Stiles snorts, but pulls the knife out of his waistband and tosses it along with his coat on the couch before walking into the kitchen.

“Just the knife?” Derek asks with a raised eyebrow, because he may not know Stiles infinitely well, but he knows him _well enough_.

“My shuriken are in my coat pocket,” Stiles tells him, a small smirk tacked on the end when both of Derek’s eyebrows go up.

“You do not.”

“I do.”

Derek shakes his head, turning back toward the stove and stirring whatever is in it. Stiles hovers for a moment, feeling awkward again.

“Sit, sit, the sauce is almost done. I hope you like alfredo, this sauce is one of the best things I make and goes well with capellini d’angelo, which happens,” Derek pauses as Stiles sits at the island, watching as the other man picks up the pot he’s stirring and adds it to a larger pot on the stove, “To be my favorite pasta as well.”

He mixes the sauce and pasta together for a moment while Stiles just stares at him. After half a minute, Derek turns around, raising his eyebrows when he notices Stiles is watching him, amusement clear on his face.

“What?”

“Just still getting used to the fact that vampires eat, and that you have a particular taste in _noodles_.”

Derek rolls his eyes - he honestly does, and Stiles _has_ to wonder how old he is now, or do humans (and ex-humans) just always act like kids no matter their age - but there’s a small smirk on his face and he turns back to pick up the pot, bringing it to the island, setting it on a pot holder.

“Our _taste_ buds still work, it’s digestion that’s the big issue.”

Stiles crinkles his nose at that; he hadn’t thought much about _digestion_ and what exactly _happens_ to the food in a vampire’s body. Derek laughs at his expression, going to the fridge.

“You want something to drink? I have beer, wine, Coke, or water.”

Stiles is surprised at that.

“Can you guys get drunk?”

Derek shakes his head, pulling out a beer and setting it on the counter.

“Only if our food source is drunk. And even then, we would have to drain the body to really feel the effects, but it would last significantly longer because our bodies don’t metabolize blood as fast as humans metabolize food and alcohol.”

“But if I drink tonight?”

Derek smiles, and Stiles swears he sees Derek glance at his neck before meeting his eyes again, shaking his head.

“I’m not drinking enough of your blood for it to make any difference unless you’re planning to get blackout drunk.”

“Hmm,” Stiles considers this, “Beer, please.”

Derek grabs another beer, closing the fridge and opening a drawer to grab a bottle opener. He sets one down in front of Stiles before sitting on a stool opposite him.

“Do you drink just because you like the taste, then?”

Derek huffs in laughter, taking a swig.

“When you’ve been alive as long as I have, you get to see the changes that things like beer go through. This tastes a hell of a lot better than the shit we used to drink.”

He picks up the pasta server, gesturing toward Stiles, who hands him his plate, watches as Derek serves him up some of the alfredo, which yes, does look absolutely delicious and perfectly calorie-laden the way a good alfredo should. His mouth waters, stomach threatening to growl and Stiles realizes he hasn’t eaten anything but an apple since his hearty breakfast of Froot Loops and whole grain toast at six that morning.

“Thanks,” he says as he takes his plate back, takes some of the caprese salad and the bread before he looks back to Derek. He stares for a moment, questions on the tip of his tongue but unwilling to voice them, unsure how rude he’ll come off. He doesn’t feel comfortable enough around Derek to shoot his mouth off as he normally would, having gotten better about it over the years, especially around strange supernatural creatures. Derek seems to sense it, even without looking up, because he speaks as he’s grabbing some bread of his own.

“You have questions?”

Derek looks up after he asks, face expectant. Stiles purses his lip, then nods.

“I do,” he confirms after a moment, biting the inside of his bottom lip in thought, “I just…”

“I won’t be offended,” Derek tells him, spinning some pasta on his fork, “You can ask me anything you want to know.”

“How old are you?” Stiles blurts out, the question having been on his mind most of the day. Derek takes a bite of pasta, smirks around it and watches Stiles as he chews.

“You mean how old was I when I was turned or how long have I been on this earth?”

Sties hasn’t considered that, but he supposes he’s curious about both. He picks up a slice of bread.

“Both, I guess,” he replies, taking a bite, and _damn_ , the bread is definitely homemade and tastes better than anything he’s ever had before and add _that_ to the things he’s surprised about vampires. Derek stares at him for another moment before he answers.

“I was twenty-three when I was turned. I was turned four hundred and twenty-eight years ago.”

Stiles chokes on the bread in his mouth, eyes wide as he coughs. He takes a drink to wash it down, then coughs a couple more times.

“That’s,” he starts, pausing to clear his throat, voice rough, “Fuck, that’s - older than the United States.”

Derek’s been watching him in judgement the entire time, and he laughs at that.

“Good job,” he tells Stiles. Stiles blinks, still staring at him with such an incredulous expression that Derek has to laugh again.

“I _told_ you it would freak you out,” he tells Stiles, who finally breaks his gaze to shake his head and taking another drink.

“I just - that means. You were born…”

He pauses, looking to the side in thought, but Derek beats him there.

“I was born in 1566, yeah.”

“Were - here?”

“Not in Beacon Hills, no, considering the town wasn’t established until 1924,” Derek replies, and Stiles glares.

“No, I meant. On this continent.”

Derek shakes his head.

“England, actually. Dorstone.”

“Never heard of it,” Stiles says, and Derek quirks a smile.

“Not many people have. It’s tiny, even today. Borders Wales, actually.”

“Damn.” Stiles picks at his pasta, staring down at his plate. “You’re really old.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth he’s looking at Derek in horror, but Derek just laughs, nodding.

“It’s fine, I am,” he agrees, “Although, technically, I’m younger than you are.”

“ _Technicalities,_ ” Stiles replies, waving his hand, “I can’t imagine being twenty-three forever.”

“Twenty-three not a good year for you?” Derek asks, eating some caprese. The smile slips off Stiles’ face, and he looks back down at his plate, shaking his head.

“Well, it was just after my twenty-third birthday that that thing I told you about the other night happened, in Vegas.”

He doesn’t have to look up to know that Derek is watching him, an expression not quite akin to pity, maybe sympathy? They’re both silent for a few moments, eating.

“So you’ve got other questions,” Derek eventually speaks up, and Stiles takes it for what it is - a lifeline.

“Um, yeah,” he replies, clearing his throat, “Yeah, I do, but - ”

“But?” Derek prompts after Stiles pauses, quiet for too long.

“I don’t want to offend you in any way,” Stiles says slowly, picking his words carefully, “And I tend to - not have a filter.”

“You won’t,” Derek replies, and he sounds much to confident even knowing Stiles as little as he did, “It’s not like I have a problem talking about myself and I can and will stop you if I don’t want to answer a question for any reason.”

Stiles stares at him for a minute, still unsure, but with a small smile on his face. Honestly, Derek continues to defy all expectations Stiles has of him.

“Um, okay,” he says eventually, “Well. Technology.”

Derek doesn’t offer a response, just raises his eyebrows, and after a while Stiles realizes why. He feels a light blush spread across his face as he realizes it what he said - or rather, _didn’t_ say.

“Um, I mean, how do you guys deal with advances in technology? Like, a lot of the older generations have so much trouble with new technologies.”

Derek lets out a full laugh at that, not just a small chuckle, and it catches Stiles off guard. It’s soft, quiet, muted, yet still somehow so joyful a sound, and Stiles figures that Derek must not laugh much, a little rusted on the edges.

“Uh, well, I think that the older you get the more resistant to change you are, so that’s probably one part of it. Another could be that it gets harder for the mind to create new pathways when you age, meaning it’s harder to adapt to new things. Or,” Derek pauses, takes a bite of bread and chews. “Could be that some people just suck when it comes to technology.”

“And where do you guys fit in to that?” Stiles ask again when Derek doesn’t offer more.

“We have no real choice but to at least partially adapt. Thermometers weren’t even invented when I was turned, for example, so if we didn’t learn to deal with change we’d be so far behind. But some of us - me and Boyd - have a better time at it. Erica has no trouble learning new things but can be very resistant to change, and was especially so at the beginning. Isaac - well, Isaac just can’t do much. He can operate a TV, do some things with a computer, knows the very basics of using a smartphone, but,” Derek shrugs, “That’s pretty much it.”

He sits back in his chair, looking over at Stiles, and they sit in silence for just a moment before he smiles.

“What else you wanna know?”

 

*

 

They end up spending nearly an hour talking, long finished with their meals, food pushed to one side of the island and both on their second beer. Stiles fills in plenty of his knowledge gaps, making a mental note to write it all down in the bestiary, but slowly the conversation turns away from Stiles’ questions and they start talking about whatever comes up. Stiles has never had much of a problem with talking, he’s been a chatterbox since he learned to make sounds at less than one year old according to his dad, but he’s certainly gotten more cautious of what he says and to whom over the years.

But he feels comfortable with Derek. Not as relaxed as he feels around his pack, but as relaxed as he often feels at home alone. Like there’s a very slight chance of an attack, there niggling at the back of his mind, keeping him on edge and ready _just in case_ , but not poised. Not like he was when he first met Derek, certainly, not even like he was the first time he came over to the house. He figures somewhat, it’s got to be that he’s been passed out with Derek twice and he’s never done anything. He’s had the opportunity to drink him dry twice and he hasn’t. He and his brood helped with the lamia, promised to helped them with any future supernatural problems. And Derek’s trusted Stiles with his rather tragic back story, and _that’s_ something.

So he doesn’t really have a problem telling Derek a little more about himself, even if he’s still carefully held back. He tells him about his dad, stories of stupid things he and Scott used to do. He learns things, too; some he already knows, but they talk more in depth about those things. Like vampires metabolize blood slowly, and if properly taught and trained a single pint of blood can last an average vampire three to five weeks depending on a bunch of things, like how rich in iron the blood is. Stiles honestly thought he would be at least slightly disgusted with talking about drinking _blood_ , but he’s not, even a bit, and he wonders very briefly what that says about _him_ before he moves on - it doesn’t really matter, because it’s not like vampires do it for _fun_. Much like he eats for sustenance, so do they.

And Derek is careful to explain that those “in charge” of a brood, like he is, need to feed more often than the rest of the brood because the rest of the brood feeds off his energy, much like a pack feeds off the energy of their alpha. Stiles already knows this, Derek told him the first time Stiles was out at the house, but he has no doubt that Derek says it again specifically for Stiles’ benefit. Confirming things Stiles only barely knows to…what? Stiles wonders. To make Stiles feel better about it, or just as a base salve to his endless curiosity?

It’s only after Derek has cleaned up dinner - having told Stiles to stay sitting, he was a _guest_ , and honestly, who would’ve thought that Derek would be anything like who he’s showing Stiles now? - that Stiles starts to feel apprehensive. He wonders if this part ever gets any easier - he knows that Derek needs to drink, has already gone nearly two and a half weeks without. But he still feels awkward about approaching the topic, and as much as he’s enjoying just talking to Derek and asking him all sorts of questions about vampires and other supernatural creatures Derek’s encountered over the years, the real reason he’s here tonight is his agreement with Derek.

Stiles thinks, briefly, about what he would be doing tonight if the brood had never shown up in town. Probably at home, watching Netflix or the Food Network. Maybe if he was feeling extra productive working on one of his projects. Probably, he thinks with a small shudder, still searching for the damn lamia, just out of their grasp as he and Lydia pulled multiple all nighters trying to figure out what the damn thing was.

Honestly, he doesn’t think he’d rather be doing any of those things.

“Are you still scared of me?” Derek asks, putting the last dish on the drying rack - _they have a fucking drying rack_ , and Stiles knows that plenty of supernatural creatures lead perfectly normal lives outside of being _non_ -human, but it’s still weird to think about vampires doing _dishes_ \- and turning around, not quite smiling but expression something akin to confused amusement.

“Still?” Stiles asks, “I was never scared of you.”

Derek just snorts in response, and the entirety of Derek’s question catches up with Stiles.

“Wait. Why do you think I’m scared of you now?”

“Your heart,” Derek replies, glancing down at his chest and Stiles will never not be tired of that. Damn supernatural creatures listening to his damn heartbeat.

“It sped up there, a few moments ago,” Derek continues, eyebrow raised and he leans back against the counter.

“I have anxiety, my heartbeat does that sometimes without my consent.”

Derek doesn’t look like he completely buys it, and he comes back over to the island, leaning on his elbows to study Stiles’ face for a moment.

“Are you nervous about anything in particular right now?”

 _He’s not a mind reader_ , Stiles reasons with himself. He may not know as much about vampires as he’d like to, but he knows this isn’t fucking _Twilight_ , vampires don’t have special powers outside immortality, extra strength, and heightened senses. He gives Derek his best poker face.

“Do you get weirdly anxious when the ‘wolves in your pack eat bunnies raw too or is that reserved especially for vampires?” Derek asks after a long moment of them staring at each other, and Stiles has to reason with himself again. _He’s not a fucking mind reader._ He wonders how Derek seems so good at reading him, then, though. He sighs.

“I’m not usually there when they go full ‘wolf when we aren’t fighting or training, we’re a pack but humans don’t go to full moon nights, so I don’t have to be aware of that shit. Also, I’m not passed out letting them chow down on _me_ , I have every right to get apprehensive about this,” he comes back, well aware that he’s on the defensive. It makes Derek smirk and _damn_ , but Stiles is annoyed with that fucking look. Nonetheless, the suggestion that comes out of Derek’s mouth makes him feel a little better about it all.

“We’ll try to tap into your magic a little tonight beforehand. You might be able to stay awake through the entire thing if you use it correctly. If that helps.”

Stiles lets out a deep breath, a small amount of relief flooding through his body at the same time his magic alights, as if it knows it’s being called. He feels the tingles in his fingers, familiar and making him feel safer already.

Not that he doesn’t feel safe with Derek. He does, but _knowing_ that he feels safe with Derek makes him feel _less_ safe, less sure of himself because he knows he shouldn’t trust someone he knows so little, someone who’s so dangerous.

“Do you want to go to the living room?” Derek invites him, taking their empty beer bottles and setting them in the sink, the barest of self-satisfaction in his expression, and Stiles sees his eyes flash that cool tone. His heart hasn’t slowed down at all in the past couple of minutes, but he refuses to let it show, even if Derek can hear his heartbeat. He just nods, gets up from his chair and heads out to the living room. Derek is right behind him, shutting off the kitchen light and Stiles refuses to glance behind him, at Derek, refuses to give Derek that satisfaction that he _is_ nervous.

The fact that he’s nervous precisely because he’s not so _nervous_ isn’t something he’s going to share with anyone but himself, though.

He sits at one end of the couch, moving his jacket and knife to the arm and Derek sits at the opposite end, amusement clear on his face but soft, almost…fond? Stiles isn’t sure. He looks down, feeling awkward again.

“Feel out your magic, find your spark,” Derek says, and _oh, yeah_. Stiles takes a deep breath, looking up and at Derek again, forcing himself to focus on the beat of his own heart, the energy beneath his skin. It flares up again as he thinks about it, and he closes his eyes, reaching out toward the barely there light that surrounds Derek until it brightens. He can feel the others too, the icy aura of the rest of the vampires some miles away, the red that he recognizes as werewolves, spread across town, the light green spark that’s gotta be Lydia. There’s a black hole out in the Preserve, opposite where they are now, that Stiles knows is the Nemeton - it’s always felt dark to him, and he can feel a pull at his heart as he tests out the connection to it.

“Good,” he hears, and he opens his eyes, surprised, almost having forgotten where he was, what he was doing. He looks at Derek, a purple tint to his vision and Derek is _smiling_ back at him, face more animated than Stiles has seen yet.

“Your eyes are glowing,” Derek informs him, and he seems absolutely happy about it but it absolutely does not rival Stiles’ own elation - his eyes have glowed only twice before; once at college when he was attacked while alone, adrenaline pulsing through his veins enhancing his magic, and another time only a year or so ago, when Malia had been nearly fatally injured. The magic in his body allowed him to be as ingrained in the pack as the alpha, but that also meant he felt the same pain, the same feelings, sometimes enough so to crack him. A near death had rocked him to the core.

This time, he doesn’t feel awful, doesn’t feel like his life is being threatened in any way. He feels _powerful_ , veins afire. He swallows, taking a deep breath and feeling a warmth wash over his body, and he blinks again, eyes going back to normal, intensity fading just slightly.

“Oh,” he says, blinking a few more times until his vision clears completely. Derek is still looking at him, some sort of awe in his expression.

“Really good,” he says, so quietly, barely audible and Stiles wonders if he was even meant to hear it. Certainly, at least, he is the next part, said nearly as quietly.

“It’s never boring to watch someone with magic get in touch with it,” Derek continues, and he sounds a shade amazed. That white-blue aura still surrounds him, and Stiles wants nothing more in the moment than to reach out and touch it. He nearly does, hand raising up, but then he catches his own aura - deep purple, royal purple, and _oh_.

It’s incredible.

He slowly lets go of it, feeling already exhausted. The tingling continues, but he can feel the magic fade out, burrow back deep within him for a later time. The aura’s are still there, but light, barely visible, and Derek is still staring at him. Stiles stares back a moment as he feels the lasts wisps drain out of his body.

“You’re amazing,” Derek tells him, and Stiles can’t help the smile that forms at that.

“You should be good, now,” the vampire continues, “Are you ready?” and _oh, yeah_. Still getting his blood taken - but sincerely, Stiles doesn’t feel weird about it, not nearly as much so as he did before, and maybe yeah, that’s in part because he’s not human either and he’s just been intensely reminded of it. Nonetheless, he gulps, nerves bundling up in the pit of his stomach to join the tingling lingering from the magic.

“Yeah,” he confirms, and Derek opens up to him. After another pause - maybe not _quite_ completely trusting of Derek, yet - Stiles scoots down the couch, back toward Derek, until he’s within reach. Derek’s hands are, again, warm, and that within itself startles Stiles again, always expecting cold. Derek lets out a huff of a laugh, continuing with his gentle manipulation until Stiles’ neck is on display. One cool breath later, Stiles’ skin going up in goosebumps for just a moment before there’s the careful touch of sharp teeth, and then.

It’s fiercer than last time, but the sucking sensation is just as weird a feeling. There’s a moment of pure _rush_ through Stiles’ body before that _feeling_ starts again. He’s never used any sort of drugs beyond smoking a few times in college, but he well imagines this is what a true, good high feels like. He’s light, drifting, floating, experiencing the world around him like never before. There’s a thrill running in his veins that’s somewhat similar to that feeling of power, of magic, but running the opposite direction. He calls on that feeling again, pulling his magic to the forefront and he hears but also _feels_ the tick in Derek’s breathing and everything turns brighter, rougher, and Stiles’ eyes fly open from where he hadn’t realized they’d closed, eyes glazed and deep purple and his vision fades, slowly.

*

It’s much less of a stuttering realization when he wakes up, this time, once again leaning heavily on Derek. He feels less exhausted, less drained than before, and _this_ is why he thought himself ideal as a familiar. The tingling of his magic is still there, though subtle, removed. Reminding Stiles that it’s there, but not on alert, and that within itself makes Stiles well aware that his body, at least, is fully trusting of Derek.

Stiles blinks, feeling Derek’s hand settled on his upper arm, not restraining but just _there_ , a slight weight. He realizes slowly that he’s laying down on the couch, head on Derek’s thigh, and he’s not the least bit uncomfortable, strange as it is to him that a vampire’s body isn’t all sharp angles and marble skin (has he been reading too much vampire literature? Maybe). More than, he feels lighter than he has in months, and _safe_ in a way he barely ever feels anymore. It feels more like he awoke from a nap than having passed out from getting his blood taken.

After a moment staring at the far wall, enjoying the simple feeling of waking up with someone else again (so rare for him, these days, and it’s _nice_ , so he only feels the slightest bit bad that the person he’s waking up with just happens to be someone who could easily kill him and his entire pack), he turns over on his back, squinting up at Derek, the overhead light a little to bright on his freshly opened eyes. Derek’s eyes flick down to him from where they were trained on a book, small smile on his face and for the first time, Stiles notices the small crinkles near the corners of his eyes, and maybe those have less to do with age and more to do with what you’ve seen in your life because Stiles knows for a fact that he’s developing them, too. And, _technically_ , Derek is younger than him.

“What’re you reading?” Stiles asks, genuinely curious. Derek makes a face like that wasn’t what he was expecting, but glances back at the book for a moment before looking back down at Stiles.

“ _La Princesse de Cleves_ ,” he replies, accent perfect, and Stiles eyebrows shoot up.

“French?”

Derek nods.

“I can read twelve languages,” he continues, smile replaced by that trademark smirk like he _knows_ Stiles is impressed with that, which _hell yes he is_. Stiles himself can easily hold a conversation with a native speaker of Polish, and keeps up on reading and writing the language as often as he can, but that’s only because his mom had been insistent that he learn her native tongue, that he be bilingual, and he has some knowledge of Spanish in part because of Spanish class and somewhat because of Melissa, but _twelve_ languages? Yes, he is impressed.

“Which ones?” he asks, curious. Derek’s smirk grows deeper.

“English, of course,” he starts, and Stiles doesn’t let him continue right away because _duh_. He rolls his eyes and says as much aloud. Derek’s nostrils flare as he huffs, but continues as if uninterrupted.

“French, Spanish, Mandarin, Russian, Portuguese, Dutch, some Afrikaans, Thai, Irish and Scottish Gaelic, and Welsh.”

Yeah, okay, Stiles is suitably impressed.

“Actually,” Derek continues, shifting slightly and Stiles is bluntly reminded that he’s still laying on Derek’s lap. He doesn’t necessarily feel like moving, still drowsy and comfortable, but he feels like maybe he should anyway, that maybe Derek is _un_ comfortable. He waits nonetheless, at least until Derek’s done talking.

“While you were out, I thought that maybe you might like to borrow some books I have - on vampires, but also on lots of other supernatural creatures. I’ve, uh, collected quite a few books over the years, some folklore and some genuine, and realized that while I’m certainly a treasure trove of information,” he pauses, smirks again and Stiles does all he can not to roll his eyes - every time he thinks that Derek might be even the smallest bit humble, he hits back with an ego the size of Texas, _honestly_.

“And you’re bound to stumble across some things I may have missed in my readings, or forgotten, and I’m sure the information would be useful for you and the pack.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says after a pause, feeling actually kind of touched - he has a feeling that one) Derek doesn’t share his books with just anyone, and two) Derek doesn’t share this kin d of information with just anyone. So yes, maybe he _should_ feel special. He does, anyway.

“Uh, most of the books are at my office, in the club, but we have a few here in the library upstairs, if you’d like to take a look before you leave tonight.”

Stiles is still looking up at Derek, head on Derek’s thigh, and Derek is staring back down, and Stiles has this sudden urge to just - kiss him.

Which - _what the actual fuck_. The thought breaks Stiles out of whatever drowsiness, nice-feeling recent-awoken stupor he’s been in, forcing him upward into a sitting position which only actually serves to make his head go all wonky. He blinks, swaying a little bit, and hears a gentle thump of a book being set down next to him before Derek’s hands are on him, steadying him.

“Feel for your magic, it’ll help,” Derek says, and he does just that, pressing out from that little spark of energy in his core and feeling the rush of lilac lightning through his veins, vision clearing from the spin it’d been in immediately, feeling at once fuller and more stable. He blinks, seeing Derek’s concerned face in front of him.

“Yeah. Thanks,” he breathes, settling his magic again, the gentle tingling left behind subtle. Certainly, he feels significantly better than he normally would just having a ninth of his blood taken from him. He feels _good_.

The concern still etched into Derek’s expression isn’t helping that fucking weird desire, though. Like - weird how this man, five hundred some years old, having seen everything, having killed various innocent people, someone who is so often smugger than anyone Stiles has ever met, can obviously care so much about a hunter and someone he’s only known a fraction of his life. And it only makes him - damn Stiles’ penchant for being attracted to people so far out of his league - incredibly alluring.

Thankfully, though, the moment of them staring at each other, something flickering in Derek’s eyes too much like what Stiles is feeling, is interrupted with the soft trill of Stiles’ ringtone; Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 ringing through the material of Stiles’ jacket alerting him it’s Scott calling. He breaks eye contact, startled, pausing for a moment before reaching for his phone.

“Shit,” he whispers, seeing Scott’s face on the screen, but also the dozen messages sent through the group chat from various members.

“Hey,” he answers, flickering his eyes back to Derek, who’s watching him carefully.

“Dude, what the hell, you’re not at your apartment and none of the pack has seen you all day,” Scott’s voice breaks through from the other end.

“Yeah, sorry.” Stiles scrubs a hand over his face, glancing at the clock on the far wall to see the time - nearing nine p.m., not actually that late, what’s going on?

“Sorry, at Derek’s place. What’s going on?”

There’s a pause, a rustle and a low growl Stiles recognizes as Jackson’s, some whispering before Scott responds.

“Uh, the fucking pixies are back. Can you meet us at the Nemeton?” There’s another pause, whispering, and Stiles is about to answer in the affirmative when Scott speaks up again.

“Might as well bring the brood, too, they might be able to help.”

 _Ah_ , Stiles realizes. Ah, that explains.

But the pixies are more important, anyway.

“Yeah, we’ll be there in - soon? Ten or so?”

“See you there.”

Stiles catches a sigh from Scott before hanging up, and he gets it, because god _damn_. The pixies are a regular occurrence; they’d fought them off at least four times in years past, but pixies are nasty little shits, drawn to the Nemeton’s immense dark power looming within in, and even _more_ drawn to the presence of fae in the area - the pixies actually being the reason they’d learned that Lydia is part fae.

Derek’s already up and tying his shoes as Stiles slips his phone ins his back pocket, and Stiles wonders for a moment before remembering that _yeah, vampires have heightened hearing_.

“Pixies?” Derek asks as he stands, grabbing a jacket from the back of the armchair as Stiles stands too, slipping into his own coat. Stiles sighs.

“Pixies. Can you call your brood? I’ll drive.”

Derek nods, and they head out of the living room to the front door. Stiles feels the very, very light touch of Derek’s hand on the small of his back, and _damn it_.

He cooly ignores it as Derek shuts off the lights and locks the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me (sometimes) at [asocialfoxpaw](asocialfoxpaw.tumblr.com)
> 
> I promise I'm still writing, hope to have the next part to this and other things up soon! thanks for sticking with me. :)


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